


Teanga Céimnithe

by pdoesart (elphie_jolras)



Series: And Now You'll Lead the Way [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Everybody Has Pleasing Side Benefits, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Pining, at least i think it is, but only mild angst, fade jokes? fade jokes., flirting with dorian but only platonically, he also learns everything in THE FADE, i don't know anymore i give up, i promise the story is more serious than the title, re: wolf jokes, references to solas being an egg, references to solas being fen'harel, solas is the wolf whisperer, there's a lot of humor i promise, this story is only mildly serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elphie_jolras/pseuds/pdoesart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Persephone never meant to develop romantic feelings for Solas, but when has anything in her life worked out?  Dorian and her friends attempt to help, but not even Cassandra's romance-novel-given experience can help two stupid elves get together when one of them spends most of his time in THE FADE and the other spent her entire childhood in trees wishing to be hunting with the Dread Wolf.  But it all works out in the end.</p>
<p>At least until Solas leaves and it all goes to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Be Safe Da'len, Young Lethallan

**Author's Note:**

> The title was courtesy of my friend Lily, who also demanded a one-shot with copious amounts of egg jokes. We'll see if that ever happens.
> 
> The chapter title, on the other hand, was taken from here: http://phemiec.tumblr.com/post/106929727700/a-solavellan-fansong-just-something-short-and
> 
> I suggest you all go listen to that song if you haven't, because it's quite beautiful

Persephone _loves_ Haven.  There’s just something about it that thrills her, some deep memory in its stones that she can feel thrumming just beyond reach when she dances, barefooted, across them.  Not for the first time, she reminds herself to thank Solas for arousing her curiosity as to how it would be to walk without any shoes on, a practice she hasn’t partaken in since childhood.  But _this,_ running free across sun-warmed dirt (although she refuses to touch snow without footwear on – she’s too fond of her toes for that, thank you very much) to go talk to the people she’s now able to call her friends?  This is wonderful.  It’s freedom, in a way, being able to keep in touch with the world around her in a way that she couldn’t when she kept her feet firmly in her soft leather boots.

“Solas!”

She’s beaming as she approaches, and why shouldn’t she be? The sun is shining, the air is crisp and clear, and she doesn’t have anything important today.  So why shouldn’t she speak to her fellow elf?  She spots Dorian across the courtyard, grinning at her, and she gives him a quick wave as she bounces towards the bald elf who is currently staring out over the walls of Haven with an unreadable expression on his face.  Not for the first time, she thinks to herself how noble he appears... and she squashes the thought as soon as it appears.  _This is Solas,_ she scolds herself, _he’s an apostate, who’s been training for Maker knows how long, and you…_

She glances down at the Mark on her hand, which glows faintly in the bright sunlight.  Well, this is the only magic she’s ever had.  She’s no mage, no matter how much she’d wished to be one as a young girl.

_All you have is a Mark you don’t even know how to use._

“Greetings, Lavellan,” Solas says politely, “How can I help you?”

“Always so formal,” she laughs, running a hand through her short hair, “Please, Solas, call me Persephone.  I know it may be strange, because it isn't an elven name, but it belongs to me nevertheless.”

“ _Ma nuvenin,_ ” Solas replies, nodding at her, and she still can’t believe how much it warms her heart to hear her people’s language.  “I was curious as to how you were given that name.”

There’s a moment where she isn’t sure whether or not to tell him, because she’s not exactly _proud_ of her past, but she also has a strange trust for Solas that stems from nowhere in particular but is extremely song nevertheless.  Maybe it’s because of the kindness he showed her, even when people still thought she’d killed the Divine.  Maybe it’s because he kept the damned Mark from killing her.  She can’t tell.  But what she _can_ tell is that he won’t judge her for her origins. 

“Mama was a slave in Tevinter,” Persephone begins, her voice quiet.  She’s known as a storyteller back in Clan Lavellan, but there’s a difference between telling her favorite stories of Fen’Harel and telling the story of her birth, especially since the latter has very few details.  “She had an affair with another slave, even though she wasn’t supposed to, and she became pregnant.  With me.  When I was born, she named me Persephone, because she’d been raised as a slave and hardly knew any elven names.  When she was forced to give me up to the Dalish or have me spend my life as a slave, she simply requested that my name remain the same.  So when Clan Lavellan took me in, I became Persephone Lavellan, and that’s all I really know.  Curiousity satisfied?”

“Very.” There’s a faint smile on Solas’ lips, which Persephone could swear makes light actually radiate from his face.  Unless that’s just her Mark glowing a little too brightly.  “Thank you, _lethallan._ ”

Her own smile is nearly wide enough to split her face in two when she hears the term of endearment.  Having him call her kinswoman – _her,_ a Dalish elf, when she knows how much he despises her people sometimes – warms her heart and it’s the least she can do to respond in kind.

“It was nothing, _lethallin._  After the wisdom and knowledge you’ve shared with me, it was only fair that I give you something of myself in return.”

Briefly, she recalls one of their early conversations, discussing magic and the fade.  How he’d spoken to her about her archery, and that her grace was a pleasing side benefit of that archery.

_“You like my side benefits?”_

_It’s hard to tell, but she’s pretty sure she can see a light blush on his cheeks.  Either that, or it’s just the sunset casting a glow over everything.  But she’d like to think that she made Solas blush._

“It was not necessary, but I appreciate it all the same,” he replies, “As for your _vallaslin_ – who are you honoring?”

She feels her cheeks heat a little at his question, even though it isn’t prying at all and he’s just trying to be friendly.  It’s not that she isn’t proud of the tattoo, but the story behind her choice as a little, well… it’s a _lot_ embarrassing.

“It’s Dirthamen,” Persephone answers, bringing her fingers up to trace the lines she knows by heart, the tree whose branches crown her brow and whose roots delicately line her chin, “He was not my first choice, but my other one was, well…” her blush returns in full force, “My adopted family did not take kindly when I asked if I could wear the mark of my first choice.  Sadly, the Dalish don’t accept those who wish to honor Fen’Harel.”

“You would honor the Dread Wolf?” Solas’ eyebrows knit together, his head tilting as he stares at her like a problem he can’t quite solve.  She gives him a sheepish smile as he continues with “The trickster, the deceiver? He Who Hunts Alone?”

“Ah, see, that’s precisely why,” she answers, “I figured that somebody wasn’t bad just because they were alone.  I was alone a lot as a child, you see, and when others were wary to invoke Fen’Harel, I just wanted to meet him.  Just once, not for the thrill or for a boon, but just to talk.  Just to let him know that he didn’t have to be alone.  I figured he must be lonely, because he’s a wolf, and wolves are pack animals, right?”

She can still recall how she felt as a child – often scorned by other children for her non-elvish name, considered queer for spending most of her time sitting in trees for no other purpose than to listen to the world around her – as well as those nights when she would sneak out of camp with fresh meat to see if the Dread Wolf would come when she called.  She would quietly sing to pass the time, wishing with all of her heart for him to come.  She’d been a little girl in need of a friend.  She’s no longer a little girl, however, and friends are now in abundance around her. 

“I know the Dalish believe him to be an evil god, but as you are so fond of saying, _‘ma falon,_ they have made many mistakes.  So why not with Fen’Harel as well?”

If he’s shocked by her calling him her friend, he doesn’t show it.  Instead he just shakes his head a little, that smile returning to his face.  “Normally the children fear Fen’Harel, not call out for his company.”

“I wasn’t like other children,” she teases, grinning at him, although the grin fades a little with what she says next. “I would have liked his protection then, however.  When the parents and elders were out of sight, the children could be… cruel.”

She remembers being pushed around by other children, recalls the jeers and insults, though she could not understand their hatred at the time.  She still can’t fully comprehend it, the way that they could hate her for something as simple as a name and who her mother was.  How could anybody hate a person for something beyond their control?

 _It’s not just that,_ she reminds herself, _it’s because you were different.  Just like how people treat your fellow elves.  Insults thrown your way just because magic comes easier to your race, and your ears are pointed._

But that was why she’d become a loner.  When other children wouldn’t include her in their games, she didn’t go crying to the elders – that only made them hate her more.  Instead, she went and played by herself, imagining brilliant adventures that she would go on, a great huntress who would walk beside the Dread Wolf as a friend.  A fearsome warrior whom no one would _dare_ bother, because Fen’Harel would destroy them.  But she never dared to tell others about her games, because the Keeper would panic and scold her for endangering the clan by calling on The Great Wolf.

“Children have that tendency, yes, I had noticed,” Solas replies, “Still, you are far more open-minded than others.  I suppose you have always had a tendency to fall straight into danger, then? Since you seek it out so much.”

She rolls her eyes at him.  “My life remained disappointingly peaceful until this mess began.  No Fen’Harel, just my _vallaslin_ reminding me that I was going to search for knowledge but having no clue where to start.  But, in a way, I’m glad that I got this Mark.”

“Why?” Solas asks, and she really can’t believe that he doesn’t understand what she’s getting at even though she’s looking at him, her entire expression saying _You’ve helped me find the knowledge I wanted._

“Because it led me to you,” Persephone finally says, and then turns to walk away. “We’ll speak later.”

“Of course.” He bows his head, “Goodbye.”

* * *

 

Dorian catches up to her by the tavern, which is _completely_ unfair, because for some reason she’s feeling that she didn’t say nearly enough to Solas and his _stupid,_ shiny, _bald,_ head.  She’s not really in the mood to talk to anybody suddenly, the warm earth beneath her feet no longer enough to lift her spirits.  When Dorian grabs her arm after she ignores his call, she growls at him.  But Dorian, stupid damned necromancer that he is, doesn’t let her go.  Instead, he grabs her other arm.

“I guessed that something was going on during our little time travel adventure,” he tells her, which is also unfair, because fuck him, she’s trying to forget that particular series of events, and his bringing it up isn’t helping.  Mostly, she’s trying to forget how much it hurt her to see Solas dying from the red lyrium.  And then, of course, there’s the fact that she watched him die before she jumped through that rift that brought her back to the present.  There’d been a _look_ on his face, some mix of pain and hope and some warmth that she’d never had directed toward her before.  And she’d looked right back at him, reaching out toward him with one hand as if she could suddenly develop magic and blast away all of the demons surrounding him.  “But I didn’t bring it up because, hey, you’re a big girl, and Solas is a mature elf, but I’m not going to let you wallow in self-pity when you’ve done nothing wrong.”

She wants to spit something back at him, some barbed comment dipped in venom that will wipe the concern off of his stupid mustached face, but then the full meaning of his words sink in, and the remark dies on her tongue.  She shakes her head at him, suddenly at a loss for words.  She’d been so _careful,_ never letting her comments slide past friendly except for that one time when she’d accidentally (okay, maybe not accidentally, maybe a little, _tiny_ bit on purpose) flirted with him, so how the hell could Dorian tell that she liked Solas?

“Is it really that obvious?” she asks him, and the worst thing about this whole horrible conversation is how weak her voice sounds to her ears.  If _Dorian_ can see it, who else could? Solas? God, she couldn’t imagine him actually knowing how she felt.  She couldn’t fathom that he might ever like her back.  Dorian shakes his head, which is only a slight relief.

“I just have an eye for these things.  I think Varric has his suspicions, but as far as I know, we’re the only ones.”

She isn’t sure how to feel about Varric knowing.  On one hand, she’s very fond of the dwarf, but on the other, she’s half expecting some novel to end up being based off of this, some epic love story with a happy ending.  But they haven’t even begun yet, and she isn’t sure that they ever will.  Even if they do, how can a happy ending exist in a time like this? Thedas is in chaos.

“Look, Dorian, I appreciate you worrying about me, but I’ll be fine…”

“Persephone, that’s about as true as anything Varric says about his life, and you and I both know how much he likes to exaggerate.”

“Dorian!” she’s exasperated now, and she can’t quite get out of his grip, which is yet another unfair thing in the long list of recently occurring unfair things, because Maker’s breath, he’s far too muscular for a mage.  She shoots a bow every day, but he’s still stronger than her, and that’s just making her more angry.

“You can’t pine after him forever, dear, you know that.  It will eat you up inside, and turn that pretty smile to a frown.  And we wouldn’t want any wrinkles on that face of yours, would we? That would be almost as terrible as, well, as wrinkles appearing on _my_ face!”

“Not right now, Dorian,” Persephone groans, tugging at his grip. She decides not to point out that he has the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. “There’s more important things than how I feel at the moment.  Like closing the rifts and the Breach.  I can deal with my heart later.  I’ll live.  Just… don’t let him know.”

Then she pulls him in for a hug, just a few seconds long, her head burrowing into the fabric of his one sleeve as if he can hide her from the world and a certain elf living in it.  Then she’s gone, running off to Maker knows where, and it’s only then that Dorian notices her bare feet.  Ridiculous elf, doing anything for the love of a man whose head could very well be an egg.  Poor Persephone.

* * *

 

“What are you going to do about Solas?”

Persephone lets out a scream, some mix of frustration and rage, and slams her forehead against the table at Cassandra’s question.  The Seeker’s response is a quiet snicker, which only prompts a groan from the slight elf.  _Dread Wolf take you, Dorian,_ she thinks to herself, _you had one job.  Now I’ve got Cassandra on my back about Solas, as well as letting the mages be free._

Even though the Seeker still doubts her decision to give the mages a free alliance, she has the satisfaction that her choice at least made Solas happy.  That’s not why she did it, but it was a pleasing side benefit.  Anything to make him smile at her in that way that could outshine the sun.  But she isn’t going to act on her stupid, distracting feelings until she’s dealt with the current disaster – the giant hole in the sky that is letting demons through into their world day in and day out.

“Nothing, Cassandra,” she mutters into the table, her words muffled slightly, “I refuse to do anything until after this nonsense is over.  I can’t afford to think about it right now.  Besides, it’s not like anything will come of it.”

“Mm-hmm,” Varric speaks up, and Persephone just decides to flip him off because screw him, he’s her best friend and this is not being supportive of her decisions.  “Persephone, you amuse me greatly, what with your crippling lack of self-esteem and your belief that Chuckles has no interest in you.”

Persephone’s response to his comment is to get up and leave, her middle finger still directed at the dwarf.  As she leaves, she hears them behind her.

 “What? It’s true.”

“You shouldn’t have upset her.”

“She’s upsetting herself!”

But then she’s gone, to hide in her secret spot that, as far as she knows, nobody else knows about.  She scales the main building, clambering onto the roof and hiding herself in an alcove, knees tucked to her chest as she gazes out over Haven.  In the distance, the sunlight glints off of the still-frozen lake, and she can’t help but smile a little.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

She jumps at Solas’ sudden appearance, nearly pitching forward off of the roof.  He catches her, though, tugging her back to safe ground.  She scoots over, giving him room to sit next to her.  He takes the spot, looking at her without turning his head.  They sit in silence for a moment, and that’s when she realizes that she never answered his question.  She blushes a little at her own stupidity, and tries not to stumble over her words too much.

“Yes. It is…. it’s beautiful.”

He nods, his gaze flickering back to the view for a moment before he regards her again.

“You’re upset about something.”

“What?” The statement catches her off guard, and she whips her head around to look at him.  “No, I’m just… I’m homesick, I guess.  And stressed.  There’s so much going on, it just gets to be too much sometimes.  I just want to go back to my clan and tell the stories, listen to the songs, sneak out at night and sit by the statue of Fen’Harel as I watch the stars.”

“Did you ever sing along?” he asks her, and she smiles a little bit.  Many of her clan have praised her voice, but she still remains unconvinced that she’s any good.  Still, after a moment’s hesitation, she nods.  “Would you sing for me?”

The blush returns to her face in full force, turning her cheeks bright pink.  “I’m not that good,” she protests, “And I could hardly think of an appropriate song… perhaps another time?”

He nods, and she almost lets out a sigh of relief.  She is _really_ not ready to sing for him.   Or anybody in this Inquisition.  No need for everybody to know that the Herald of Andraste has a terrible voice.  They might kick her out and find somebody else to lead them.   Okay, maybe that's a bit dramatic, but her point is: who knows what could go wrong?  Surely Solas will never want her if she makes a fool of herself like that.  No, she’s content as she is right now, to sit with him as afternoon descends into evening, a comfortable silence settling over them.  As time wears on, the sun begins to set, and she hears a lone wolf howl in the distance.  Instinct kicks in, and she does as she always has when a wolf howls – she cups her hands around her mouth and howls back, the cry ringing clear over to rooftops of Haven and out into the valley.

Solas casts a sidelong glance at her as she laughs, listening to the echo of her howl.

“Try it,” she says, gesturing, “I find it liberating.”

The mage hesitates for a moment, but she wins him over with her smile and her laugh, and he follows suit, his own howl ringing out clear into the twilight.  To her surprise, she hears a response to his howl, coming from the mountains.  Another joins it, and soon there’s a choir of wolves filling the night with their chilling song.  She looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“In my travels throughout the Fade.”

They sit there in silence for a while longer, until the stars are clear in the sky above them and Persephone feels calm enough to fall asleep beneath their watchful gaze.


	2. I Fell In Love With the World In You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas is a nerd, Persephone learns to hate snow, she realizes that she probably won't be remembered for who she was, and Awkward Romance Times happen post-fade kiss.

Solas has noticed a few things about the so-called Herald of Andraste.

One: When she thinks nobody is listening, she’ll hum to herself.

Two: She is highly tactile, and often makes physical contact with whomever she’s around at the time.

Three: This contact never extends to him.

Oh, he’s seen her, the way she’ll muss with Dorian’s hair (causing the Tevinter mage to grumble and fix it), or how she’ll jump onto The Iron Bull’s back and demand that he give her a piggy back ride (Bull never tries to argue; Solas wonders if he knows that arguing with her is pointless, or if he genuinely enjoys carrying the small elf on his back).  He sees how she touches her companions when she speaks to them, a brush of her hand against their arm or a finger gently poking them (where she pokes them depends – she can only reach Bull’s stomach, Dorian generally ends up getting poked in the chest, Sera on the nose, and Varric on his arm), but she seems to _avoid_ touching him.

She’ll laugh at a comment and almost touch his shoulder, but at the last moment she’ll freeze and pull away, as if she’s afraid to make contact with him.  The smile won’t falter, and neither will her laugh, but he’ll see it in her eyes, almost a twitch, like she _knows_ what he is.  It reminds him of the old days, when he was young and fearless and oh-so arrogant.  Then, he would have reveled in the discomfort, in the fact that people feared him.  Now, however?  It almost hurts him when she stops herself from touching him, like he’ll lash out at her for something so simple.

He likes to think that Persephone is at least his friend, so why is she so afraid?  He poses this question to Varric one day, but the dwarf just laughs at him and refuses to answer, waving him away with one hand.  Cassandra simply shrugs when asked, and he doesn’t trust Dorian to give him a straight answer.  With this, he’s left with only one choice: ask her directly.  He tells himself beforehand that he’s going to handle this delicately, ask her in a gentle manner that won’t scare her off more.  He approaches her when they return from a trip to the Hinterlands to close a few more rifts (he’s heard her complaining to Dorian about how they keep cropping up; she seems exhausted and he really can’t blame her), prepared to be polite and friendly about their problem – if it can be called that.  Instead, everything comes out wrong.

“You never touch me.”

Persephone, who is in the middle of drinking tea, almost chokes on the hot liquid in her cup.  Instead, she spits it out in a magnificent arc across the table of the tavern.  Solas hears Sera’s laugh from across the room, but focuses on Persephone, who is blushing bright red and trying to recover.

“Sorry, what?”

Only then does he realize how _wrongly_ that came out, and he quickly amends what he’s said.

“I only mean that with everyone else, you initiate frequent contact, and yet this contact never extends to me.  I was wondering why.”

She sets down her tea, clearing her throat as she looks up at him.  It strikes him that he’s never realized how green her eyes are, the vivid color of a spring leaf or the Mark on her hand.  Those bright eyes are pinning him down now, a slight smile also being offered that makes his heart do a flip in his chest.  But on the outside he remains unaffected, simply watching her.  There’s a carefulness about her, a wariness to the way she holds herself as she begins to speak.  Each word seems to be chosen with an exact purpose in mind – it’s unusual for her, he knows this, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Solas,” she begins, “I respect you.  I refrained from my usual actions because I feared you would take offense to them.  The last thing I wanted was to push you away by offending you.”  She stands, laying her hand on his shoulder. “I wasn’t sure how to ask if doing this was okay.”

“Don’t be afraid, _lethallan,_ ” Solas replies, laying his own hand atop hers, “You are my friend.  This is perfectly alright.”

Her smile broadens, and he can’t help but smile a little in response.

\--

She wants to kill herself.

Okay, no, that’s not true, because she’s worked too hard to get herself away from Corypheus to die now.  Still, she’s cold to the point of being half-frozen, laying in a snowbank, soaking wet, and without a clue of where she is, considering she’s in some maker-forsaken cave.  It strikes her that she doesn’t know if everybody got out okay, and that alone is enough to make her struggle to her feet, body protesting by sending jolts of pain through her as if to say:

_Hey, girlie, listen, you happen to be in no state to go off searching for your friends.  Lay back down._

Except she knows that if she does lay down, she’ll pass out again, and that will surely kill her.  It’ll either be from the cold or her injuries, but _something_ will get her, and that will be the end of Persephone Lavellan.  Poof.  Gone.

She can’t let that happen.  She’s been through far too much to give up now, promised the Inquisition too much.  She told them that she’d help them.  She’s their Herald, their savior, even if she never asked for it.  And she’s not going to be defeated by a few injuries and some shitty snow.  She’s going to get the fuck out of this cave, find the Inquisition, and figure out how to save the world.  Even if it means going up against Corypheus again.

She makes her way towards the entrance, the Mark – _Anchor,_ she corrects herself – spitting out green energy in a way it hasn’t since the day this all began.  There’s a tunnel beyond it, barely visible in the faint, greenish light.  Wait… green light?

Oh shit.  A rift.

Her suspicions are confirmed when she reaches the next cavern of this hellish ice cave, and, sure enough, there’s a rift floating right in the middle of it.  She wants to scream.  She’s alone, exhausted, and in extreme pain, but _no._ The demons can’t give her one fucking break.  Instead of screaming, she lets out a long-suffering sigh that she’s pretty sure would make Dorian burst into laughter (Maker, Dorian, she hopes he made it, she doesn’t think she can handle a world without him) and draws her daggers.  But before she has a chance to attack the demons who are moving _really quickly towards her,_ the Anchor spits out green energy and another rift opens.

She panics for a moment, expecting more demons to appear, but all that happens is the demons she’d been about to stab get dragged back into the Fade via her new rift.  Then it disappears on its own, leaving her to close the original rift before more demons poke their ugly heads through.  With no more immediate threats outside of frostbite, she continues her way outside of the cave.

And into a blizzard.

Curses fall from her lips as snow hits her in the face.  She has a feeling that it would sting if she wasn’t already numb from cold, and it’s that thought that gets her moving.  She can’t afford frostbite.  It’ll be hard to shoot a bow or wield daggers with fingers missing.

She doesn’t know how long she walks – she can’t see the sky through all of the snow, so it’s nigh on impossible to know how much time has passed.  She doesn’t even know if she’s moving in the right direction.  All she can hope is that the Inquisition has sent out scouts to look for her, and that she’ll be found if she keeps moving.  Eventually, when she’s faint from exhaustion, she hears voices and feels strong arms lifting her off of her feet.  She burrows into her savior’s chest, and her eyes focus just enough to spy a familiar amulet just inches from her face.

The last thing she hears before she falls into blissful unconsciousness is Solas’ voice reassuring her that she is safe.

\--

She doesn’t ask to be made Inquisitor.  But she’s the best person for the job, apparently, so here she is, holding aloft this ridiculous sword (she doesn’t even _fight_ with a sword, she uses daggers, there’s a reason Varric calls her “Stabby”) while the crowd roars at her.  They _need_ this, her leadership, what she represents.  She’s their Hero, their Herald… their Inquisitor.  She doesn’t doubt that there are _better_ choices than her – Cassandra, for one, or Cullen, Leliana, or even Josephine – but Cassandra has a point.  The people want _her._ She’s not qualified to be their leader, but they want her to lead nonetheless, and who is she to deny them that?  If they want the guidance of a Dalish elf, so be it.  Maybe her different viewpoint will help them to find victory.

Even though she agrees to take on this mantle, she is acutely aware of what her struggles will bring for her people: nothing.  It won’t matter if she saves the world, because there have been elven saviors before.  And what did they get for their heroic actions?  Shartan, rewritten to be a human so that nobody would know that an elf had tried to save their beloved Andraste.  Countless others, lost to time because humans cannot help but look down upon her people.

Persephone doesn’t believe in hating people for what race they were born, but in that moment she understands why so many of her fellow elves are wary of those they call _Shem._ She understands why Solas finds it so hard to be friendly with their human coworkers.  It makes her sick, this sudden understanding, the fact that it will be so, _so_ easy to erase who she was from history.  Persephone, Herald of Andraste, reduced to some human girl without any of the struggles _she_ has faced.  Her mother’s slavery?  Erased.  Her Dalish roots? Gone. Nobody will remember _why_ she adores heading missions into the wild so much, only that she did.  Nobody will question why the leader of the Inquisition didn’t stay at Skyhold – they will simply assume that she was hands on.

Which she is, granted, but that erases her childhood in the wilds of Thedas, the time she spent clambering up trees and trying to climb hills that were impossibly steep.  Who else will they erase, she wonders, barely paying attention as she is led away from the crowd.  Who else will be changed for _comfort’s_ sake?  Solas?  Will his ears be rounded in the paintings, his status as an apostate mage changed?  Or will he be forgotten altogether?

That thought only makes the churning in her stomach increase, until she thinks she might have to excuse herself to go empty her stomach over a balcony somewhere.  She can’t imagine anybody doing that to Solas.  To take him and… erase him like that seems to her to be the worst crime imaginable.  Maybe it’s just her being stupid.  Maybe she’s far too fond of the other elf, but she wants to do all she can to ensure that he is remembered.  She feels that she owes him that much.

After all, he did save her life.  Making sure that _his_ is remembered is the least she can do for him.

\--

It’s been two weeks.

She isn’t counting, or anything, but it’s been two weeks since she kissed Solas.

(She wonders – does it still count if it was only a dream?)

It’s been two weeks, and she can still call every moment to mind perfectly, vividly.  When she closes her eyes to sleep at night, she sees his face and feels his touch.  Sometimes she dreams of it, their walk through the Fade.  Knowing that he shared that with her makes her chest feel warm, and she swears that everything seems lighter.  She tells Dorian about it, although she focuses mostly on her later conversation with Solas – and how nothing has occurred since their kiss.

He teases her endlessly, whispering the words _fade tongue_ in a terrible mockery of her voice.  If she didn’t enjoy his company so much, she would hit him over the head and make sure that he was unconscious for a while.  But he’s her best friend.  She can’t do that to him, not even when he shoots glances between her and Solas almost constantly.

In fact, she barely talks to Solas until they’re out in the Emerald Graves, searching for a place to camp for the night.  It’s her, Solas, Bull, and Dorian, and Bull keeps pointing out places that he thinks are ideal to spend the night.  None of them are up to her standards.  She can tell that Bull and Dorian are confused, but she can’t spare the breath to explain.  Truly, she has no idea whether or not Solas understands what she is searching for.  Surely he must, though.  He knows of the Dalish, and he knows of how much better she feels when things remind her of her home.

Take the Emerald Graves, for example.  The vastness of the forest reminds her of her childhood, and even _touching_ one of the giant trees brings a smile to her face.  Still, everything about the camp site must be _perfect._ True, the spots that The Iron Bull have pointed out would have been perfect by, say, human standards, but she wasn’t human.  And making camp just didn’t feel right without a statue of Fen’Harel nearby.

Finally, she finds the perfect spot.

“Here!” she exclaims, throwing her pack on the ground just behind the Dread Wolf’s stone tail, “This is the place.”

“This is almost exactly like the last place we scoped out,” Dorian whines (although he would deny that it is a whine; he doesn’t like to admit that the great Dorian Pavus whines).  Bull nudges him as gently as he can, and Dorian seems to notice the statue for the first time.  More specifically, he seems to notice how brightly the Inquisitor is smiling at it, despite the exhaustion in her green eyes. 

“It is a Dalish practice,” Solas informs them, and Persephone feels a swell of gratitude that he is explaining for her.  “The statues of the Dread Wolf face away from the camp, and are believed to provide protection against evil.”

“So we spent five hours stumbling about in the wilderness searching for a campsite, passing several _perfectly good_ ones, all because what? Homesickness?”

Homesickness is a word for it, she supposes, although she longs less for the members of her clan and more for a clan of her own, one composed of Dorian and Bull and Cassandra and Cullen and Cole and, yes, Solas.  He can disdain the Dalish all he wants, but he will always be a part of her own little clan.  They all will be, for the simple reason that they are her friends.  So she simply nods at Dorian’s words, and they set about pitching the tents.  Solas takes first watch, and Persephone settles down to try and sleep.

Only, there’s one problem: the minute she lays down, any trace of tiredness disappears.  She tosses and turns for maybe thirty minutes, and then she gives up.  She exits the tent into the starry night, and spies Solas perched atop the Dread Wolf.  Together they seem to almost belong in a painting, and she wishes that she had the artistic ability to commit it to canvas.  Silently, she picks her way up to sit beside him, drawing her knees up to rest her chin on them.  Solas looks at her, and the smile he gives her makes warmth blossom in her chest.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she explains, casting her eyes up to examine the constellations, “I hope I’m not bothering you?”

“You could never be a bother, Inquisitor.”

“There we go again,” Persephone lifts her head, turning her face towards him.  The firelight and moonlight plays beautifully off of his features, strong and noble, almost like the old statues and paintings of elvhen gods.  “Inquisitor, Solas, really?  Just because I’ve gained a new title doesn’t mean you must call me by it.  We are friends first.  You don’t hear Dorian going around calling me _Inquisitor._ ”

“I… am sorry.”

She feels very frustrated suddenly.  Every time she thinks she’s made a step with Solas, he does something like this, like he’s afraid of her or something.  It’s like he thinks that every little thing is going to offend her, like she’s _angry_ at him for not calling her Persephone.  Honestly, he can call her whatever the fuck he wants, she doesn’t care, but he always seems warmer when he calls her by her name.

“Don’t be,” she sighs, returning her chin to her knees, “Thank you… for earlier.  For explaining about all of this.”

She drops one hand to the statue beneath them, her fingers stroking it as if it is a real wolf with real fur.  Solas examines her quizzically, waiting for her to continue, and she waits a moment before doing so.

“I told you about my differences,” she murmurs, “About my… unique opinion on Fen’Harel.  This is more than simple homesickness.  It’s more than superstition, too.  This… it makes me feel less alone.  These statues make me feel like the Dread Wolf is right here.  Beside me.”

Solas doesn’t say anything for a moment, but there’s something in his eyes as he looks at her; she sees it when she meets his gaze, and she can’t name it, but she _knows_ that it’s there.  Then he shakes his head a little, as if amused by her words. 

“You aren’t alone.  Not anymore.”  His voice is soft, and she nearly jumps as his hand finds hers.  But he just holds it, and she relaxes.  Maybe she doesn’t have Fen’Harel by her side, but she _does_ have Solas, and that in itself is good enough for her.

“I know,” she replies, shifting a little so that she can lean against him.  It’s a hesitant gesture on her part, mostly from fear that he’ll pull back (because he _always_ does, he’s _always_ on the retreat, except for their kiss, because then he’d taken the lead and it had been _wonderful_ ), but he doesn’t.  He stays where he is, and allows her to lean on him.  “Thank you.”

“It is no matter,” he tells her, and she feels his chin rest upon the top of her head.  She feels safe, content, and it’s strange.  She isn’t used to feeling so fulfilled.  It’s like all she needs, and all she’ll ever need, is to sit with Solas and watch the stars.

“No, it means a lot to me,” she insists, “I may be a Lavellan, but you – all of you, my entire circle – are my _true_ clan.  You were the people who accepted me for who I am.  Someday, I hope that the world will remember this, the way that we were like a family.  We fight, yes, but we will always support each other.”

“If this is a family,” Solas says, and she can _hear_ the grin in his voice, the little shit aspect of him making a rare appearance, “Who are the parents?”

“Well, there’s more than two,” she decides after a moment, “Cassandra is definitely one of the mothers.  So is Bull.  And Vivienne.”

“Oh?” Solas asks, a chuckle escaping him, “What logic did you use for that?”

“Please, think about it,” she laughs, “Cas is super strict, just like some mothers.  Bull is super caring and knows _everything._ And Vivienne just seems like she’s going to punish you if you don’t follow the rules.”

“I see your point,” he admits, and he’s still chuckling (she can feel his chest shaking due to the position of her head; she likes it more than she’ll ever say).  “Does the Inquisition have a father?”

“Oh, that’s Blackwall,” she says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, “Honestly, who else could he be?”

He lets out an honest laugh then, one that pierces the night air and makes Persephone grin.  She continues, ideas falling from her lips. 

“Varric is one of the uncles; he travels and brings back incredible items for his nieces and nephews.  They would be me, Cole, Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine.”

“You still have a few members to go, _Lethallan_.”

“Oh, let’s see.  You, Sera, and Dorian, right?” she asks.  He makes a noise of confirmation, and she lets out a giggle. 

“Dorian is a family friend,” she says, “Sera is an aunt.  Obviously, you’re the frumpy uncle.”

“I’m not _frumpy,”_ he protests, but she can hear the amusement in his voice, “I’m a scholar!  That doesn’t make me an old man.” 

“Oh, please,” she smiles, shifting so that her head is on his shoulder and she can see his face, “How old are you?  Forty?  Forty-five?  Robbing the cradle a little, aren’t you?”

She’s teasing him, and he knows it, but he still looks at her with an arched eyebrow.  “How old are _you,_ Persephone?”

“Twenty three,” she says matter-of-factly, “Half your age, probably.  Not that that’s a problem.”

She gives him a cheeky grin, and he smiles back.  Then they fall into a companionable silence, sharing their warmth as Solas keeps watch and Persephone watches the stars.

When Dorian comes out to relieve Solas of watch, he finds the apostate mage watching a sleeping Inquisitor with adoration as her head rests in his lap.  It’s a touching portrait, and Dorian is loathe to disrupt it, but Solas needs to sleep, and if they don’t move Persephone she’ll wake up sore in the morning.  So he has Solas move the elf to her tent, and then wishes the apostate a good night.  For once, he gets a similar wish in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for THIS chapter was taken from the song "Hold My Hand as I'm Lowered" by Noah and the Whale. Lily once again provided inspiration, this time for the discussion of who in the Inquisition is what family member ("Can't you see Bull baking cupcakes? He's such a mom"). Not included is the fact that Morrigan is the emo middle child, Cole is Solas' favorite nephew, and Leliana and Josephine are twins who have their own secret language. Also that Cullen is the oldest and the Inquisitor is the baby of the family.


	3. My Singing Soul, It Cries to Thee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas learns 90% of his skills in the Fade, Dorian gets sick and tired of Cute Couple Things between Solas and Persephone, she has self-esteem issues, bad nightmares, and Fade Tongue. Always Fade Tongue.

Helping Solas generated a day of new experiences.

She’s never seen Cassandra that pissed off.  Apparently, running off with Solas, Cole, and Blackwall was a stupid idea.  But Solas asked her to help him, and what was she supposed to say?  No?  The man was drinking _tea,_ for Maker’s sake.  He hates tea.  And as if that hadn’t been enough to tip her off that something was wrong, when he _told_ her what had happened?

All she could imagine was losing one of her own friends.  Dorian being possessed by a demon, Cole becoming corrupt, Solas being rendered Tranquil in some attempt to weaken the Inquisition.  It’s that last one that really pushes her over the edge, that tells her that she _needs_ to do this.  If somebody hurt any member of the Circle, she’d expect her friends to rush to their aid with her.

Along that same vein of previously unforeseen anger lies _Solas’_ anger at the mages who tore his friend from the Fade into the physical world.  That’s actually also why Cas is upset.  She seems to think that Persephone shouldn’t have let Solas burn through those mages, but Cas doesn’t understand.  Persephone doesn’t even fully understand, but she knows enough to grasp the need for revenge.

And then there’s the sickness churning in her stomach, like when she imagined Solas being erased from history but _worse,_ as if the entire world is crumbling beneath her and she can’t do anything to stop it.  She tried to save the wisdom spirit, made sure that nobody _touched_ Solas’ friend as they destroyed the summoning circle, but she’d failed.  Blackwall had looked at her like she was crazy, but Cole knew.  Cole knew that she trusted Solas above anybody else, especially on manners of the Fade and spirits.  He knew because that trust was the reason that he was still around, that she trusted _him._

Cole was like a little brother to her, but without the annoying parts and just with the caring and understanding.  He’d spoken to her on their way back to Skyhold, when she was beating herself up over not doing enough, not saving the spirit of wisdom.  She’d felt like a failure, and it was because of Cole that she’d managed not to shatter over it.

Plus, when they _had_ gotten back to Skyhold, there’d been her conversation with Solas.  She’d comforted him, they’d kissed again, and he’d called her _vhenan._   Even thinking about it is enough to make her smile, make her heart feel warm in her chest and keep a smile on her face.  She loves him.  She loves him more than she’s loved anybody before, and that should scare her.  But it doesn’t, somehow, doesn’t make her want to run and hide in a forest or stay away from him.  If anything, she wants to spend more time with him, and it’s hard not to lay down atop of his scaffolding in his rotunda and just watch him study his books or paint his murals.

“Where were you taught to paint?” she asks him one day, leaning against one of the door frames that dot the perimeter of the rotunda.  He’s painting one of the walls with broad brush strokes, a wolf taking form beneath his paintbrush.

“I learned my craft in the Fade,” he says absentmindedly, not taking his eyes away from his work.  She’s simply watching him, eyes tracing his figure over and over again.  They’ll have to head out tomorrow – they’ve received word of more rifts opening on the Storm Coast, and she has to go close them – but for now she’s content just to watch him.

“Is there anything you didn’t learn how to do in the Fade?” she teases, “It seems like the majority of your skills have come from there.”

He pauses, turning his head to glance at her over his shoulder.   “I learned how to kiss outside of the Fade, _vhenan._ ”

That isn’t what she was talking about, but it makes her laugh anyway, throwing her head back and letting the laugh burst out of her.  “Oh, you’ve kissed lots of girls, have you?  I bet you used to be quite the ladies’ man, Solas.”

She sees the slight blush on his cheeks, and her smile widens.  She’s hit the truth, she can tell, and she can’t wait to tell Bull.  He and Varric have a bet going – whether or not Solas avoids the Dalish because he’s broken the hearts of so many of their daughters.  Of course, the overall bet relies on them discovering whether or not Solas is a ladies’ man.  Persephone’s just hit jackpot, and Bull is going to be so glad that he won the bet.  He’ll owe her _weeks_ of drinks.

“I… have had some experience with women,” he says carefully, his paintbrush still poised over the wall.  He always does this when he doesn’t know what to say, pauses as he thinks things over.  He doesn’t want to confirm or deny her statement, so he chooses something neutral.  But she knows him too well, and she knows the truth.

“You know I don’t care how many people you have or haven’t been with,” she tells him, pushing off of the doorframe and walking over to him.  She wraps her arms around him from behind, standing on tiptoe so that she can rest her chin on his shoulder.  “ _Ar lath ma, vhenan_.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek, and he smiles at her.  “I love you too, Persephone.”

They remain like that for a moment, and then she releases him from her grasp with another peck on the cheek.

“I’d better go tell Dorian that he’s coming tomorrow,” she says with a twitch of her lips, “Do try not to rip into him too much.  I know you dislike him because he’s human, and because he’s Tevinter, but he means well.”

“He doesn’t understand,” Solas says simply, “I doubt he ever will.”

“He may not,” she agrees, “But he tries.  That’s more than any others do.”

She squeezes his shoulder and leaves, glancing back over her shoulder as she does to get a last glimpse of him.

\--

“You two are sickening.”

“I might say the same about you and Bull,” Persephone responds flippantly, not releasing Solas’ hand despite Dorian’s statement.  She knows he’s just teasing, but he can’t expect her to take it without retaliating.  He splutters at her statement, floundering for a response to her nonchalant statement.

“We aren’t… that’s… how did you know?”

“You are _quite_ obvious,” Solas comments, his lips twitching into a smile.  Dorian glowers at them, and Persephone gives him a cheeky grin.  He acts like it’s a giant secret that he likes men, when in reality, it’s a miracle that the entire world doesn’t know.  “You two keep looking at each other with utter longing.”

“It’s kind of cute,” she admits, “But definitely sickening.  And absolutely obvious.”

Bull lets out a low laugh, which sounds more like a rumble of thunder than anything else.  Dorian makes an affronted noise, folding his arms.

“Looks like they’ve caught us, Dorian,” the Qunari says, reaching out to pat the Tevinter’s back.  When he does, Dorian’s knees almost buckle, and Persephone’s near-laugh turns into a snort.  He still glares at her.

“There you go, Solas,” she tells the other elf, “Now you know just _how_ pointless the flirting between Dorian and I is.  I am hopelessly in love with you, and he has been mesmerized by the Iron Bull’s impressive pectorals.”

Bull flexes at her comment, and Dorian rolls his eyes.  For once it isn’t raining on the Storm Coast, and they’re looking for a place to camp.  Tomorrow they’ll close the rest of the rifts, and then they can get back to Skyhold, hopefully returning to find an invitation to the ball at the Winter Palace.  Dorian rejects a possible camp near the shore, under the grounds that he gets seasick even on land, and they have to trek up the side of a mountain to find another one.  When they eventually find somewhere, Persephone’s eyelids are drooping, and she is quickly barred from taking first watch.  Instead, Bull takes it, and Solas takes their Inquisitor into her tent despite her protests.

“You need to sleep,” he chides her as she halfheartedly fights against him, “You can’t run the Inquisition on two hours of sleep, _vhenan._ ”

“I can’t run the Inquisition anyway,” she says, pulling him down with her as he lays her down.  He falls with a puff of exhaled air, and rolls over to look at her.  She pulls herself close to him, curling into his chest.  “Who decided this, Solas?  Who decided that a Dalish elf should run the Inquisition?  Who decided to give a girl with arms the width of sticks this?”  She holds up the hand with the Anchor on it, which still glows green.  She sounds tired, drained, and he can only pull her closer.  There’s nothing he can do about her fatigue, about the energy it takes to run the Inquisition.  All he can do is love her, and he can’t even do that as he wishes to.

Someday, he tells himself, someday he’ll tell her.  Soon.  She deserves to know, deserves to understand why he’s so careful around her.  He knows so much about her, and she knows so little about him.

“Well, if Mother Giselle is to be believed,” he says with a smile, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “Andraste herself chose you to be her champion and close the rifts.”  That pulls a snort of amusement from her, and he chuckles as well.  “But it is not your physical strength which counts here,” he reminds her.

“If physical strength counted with magic, you and Dorian would have arms as big as Bull’s,” Persephone tells him teasingly, “Imagine Vivienne with Bull’s arms.”

He does, and the image is ridiculous to make him laugh.  She laughs too, burying her face in his shoulder.  They lay like that for a moment, smiles on their faces, a calm bubble in the chaos of the world.  He’s her harbor in this storm of a conflict, the only thing that keeps her from being wrecked.  Without him, she’d sink.  Without him, she’d go insane.

“Regardless of how our dear Vivienne would look with The Iron Bull’s arms,” he manages, trying to steer the conversation back on track, “the fact remains that you are a brilliant, strong, and compassionate individual. Your being a member of the Dalish has no impact on your legitimacy as a leader.  If anything, it shows how impressive your virtues are.  You cannot place the reason for your being chosen on your race or bloodline; as someone who the humans find beneath them, it is obvious that it is your skills which have gotten you to this point.  Persephone, you are a remarkable individual.  I have told you this before, but I will tell it to you again: you have changed my world.”

There’s a blush on her cheeks in the dim light, and she’s smiling despite her downcast gaze.  She doesn’t know how to accept the compliment, he knows that.  How could she?  So many years of her life spent being teased, being an outcast, only seen as useful because of her ability to tell stories.  And tell stories she can; she knows the old ones, of course, but she’s made up ones of her own as well.  She tells them to him beneath the starry sky, whispering the words into his ear as her hand slides into his and her eyes trace constellations in the sky.  She is beautiful, contains a world – no, countless worlds – in her mind.  They shine from her eyes, fall from her lips, leak from the sharp edges and soft curves of her.

He’s walked with goddesses, but he’s never met anyone as worthy of the title as Persephone Lavellan.  If she had been born a few thousand years earlier, he could have festooned her with everything that he had.  He would have ensured that stories of her were spread across Thedas, that everyone in Elvhenan would have known her name.

He would have lost her when he locked the others away.  No, it’s better that she never saw the beauty of Arlathan, never knew him as the Dread Wolf, never experienced his family’s cruelty.  It’s better that she had no chance to become corrupted as the others had.  She is too bright, too pure, made of stars and the brightest memories of the Fade.  She is all that is good in the world, and if she can accept that even a little bit by the end of all this, he’ll be happy.

“It’s you who has changed my world,” she tells him, tilting her face up so that she can brush her nose against his.  “I love you.  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell you how much so.  You will always be _ma vhenan._ ”  My heart.

“I love you too.”

\--

The night after the ball at the Winter Palace, before they leave for Skyhold, Solas finds Persephone in the Fade.  She’s having a nightmare, and a bad one at that.  The Fade is dark around her, and he almost doesn’t approach for fear that he’ll be intruding on some private memory.  But he hears her cry out his name, her voice breaking with tears, and he makes up his mind.  He’s by her side in an instant, taking her in his arms.

He doesn’t recognize where they are.  It’s a forest at night, shadows deeper than they would be in reality.  He can hear shouts in the distance, the sound of footsteps, and his _vhenan_ near-hyperventilating next to him.  She’s shaking, but she looks up at him, and he can see the tears in her eyes.  He wants to know who made her this afraid, who made her cry.  He wants to destroy them for doing such a thing to such a beautiful soul.

“Solas?”

“I’m here, _vhenan,_ ” he assures her.  She reaches out to him, but then recoils as if she’s afraid of him.

“Is it really you?” she asks, “Or…”

The yelling grows suddenly louder, and an arrow strikes a nearby tree.  Persephone lets out a sob, dropping into a crouch and clapping her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut.  He’s never seen her look so vulnerable, not even when she was unconscious and the Anchor was devouring her.  He’s never seen her so afraid.

“I am real,” he insists, “This is just a dream, Persephone.  You can _change_ it.  It’s just a dream.  Focus on me.”

Shapes appear in the trees, and Persephone begins to shake more.  Before his eyes, she becomes younger until she can be no more than fourteen.  Her vallaslin fades from her face, leaving a girl he almost doesn’t recognize.  Then the source of her fear makes itself known.

Ten Dalish of sixteen or seventeen years step out of the trees, mostly male but with a few girls thrown in.  They all have grins on their faces, wicked pleasure at the terrified girl before them.

“Flat-ear,” one of them taunts, and then throws a stone at her.  It glances off of his vhenan’s shoulder and he growls.  However, these memories take no notice of him.  They are more focused on the quivering teen.

“Please leave me alone,” she begs, her voice quavering with her tears.

“Oh, the _shem_ is going to cry,” one of the boys laughs, and the crowd of them close in around her.  Persephone lifts her head just as the boy kicks her in the side, forcing her back to the ground.  She cries out as another boy does the same, and more stones are thrown.

“I’m not a shem!” she insists, trying to make it to her feet.  But she can’t get up, not with the group surrounding her and hurting her as they are.

“Your mother was a dirty slave and so are you,” One girl spits.  She has brilliant red hair and icy blue eyes.  Persephone seems most hurt by her comments. “You don’t even have a Dalish name.  I bet that’s why you always go crying for Fen’Harel.”

“Little flat-ear can’t even fight her own battles,” another one taunts, “So she tries calling the Dread Wolf down on us.  But why would he ever listen to _your_ calls, _shemlen_? You’re not even Dalish!”

“Yes I am,” Persephone manages, despite the tears streaming down her face and the sobs coming from her throat.  “I _am_ Dalish.”

“Where’s Fen’Harel now?” the redhead asks, scowling, “We saw you stealing our offerings to Andruil to give to him.  If you were a _true_ Dalish, he would come for you when you called.”

“So call him, flat-ear,” the first boy orders, giving her another kick, “We’ll see if you’re really Dalish.  _Do it._ ”

Persephone shakes his head, but they keep hurting her and telling her to call for the Dread Wolf.  Finally she gives in, her voice barely audible through her tears.

“Fen’Harel…”

“ _Louder,_ shem!”

“Fen’Harel!”

The group laughs at the pathetic sight before them, and Solas can guess what happened when this originally took place.  No Dread Wolf to come and save young Persephone.  But not this time.  He calls on the wolf within him and changes, bursting into the center of the circle as his vhenan’s cries of his name, his _true_ name, grow louder.  The other Dalish shriek and go running, and he chases them away from the Inquisitor.  Then he feels a hand in his fur, and the younger version of his vhenan is crouching in front of him, a smile bright on her bruised and bloodied face.

“Thank you, Fen’Harel.  _Thank you._ ”

He runs into the woods, making sure she can’t see him as he shifts back.  When he returns to the clearing, Persephone has returned to normal, the vallaslin back on her face and the fresh wounds gone.

“Solas,” she whimpers, falling into his arms as she begins to cry freely.  She clutches him tightly, as if he’s going to disappear and leave her to her nightmares.  “Solas, don’t go.  Don’t leave me…”

“Vhenan,” he whispers, holding her close to him, “Vhenan, listen to me.  Do you want to go somewhere else?”

She nods, burying her head in his chest.  His heart twists at her pain, and he thinks of a place to take her.  The Fade shifts around them, and when it settles, they’re in a ballroom.  There is a small orchestra playing, and the people of Elvhenan dance around them.  Persephone lifts her head, looking around at their surroundings in amazement.  Dresses of every color surround them, men and women twirling in a fast dance.

“I thought, since you did not have a chance to wear a gown,” Solas tells her, “Choose one, vhenan, and focus on it.  In your dreams, you can do whatever you wish.  If you imagine yourself in the gown, you will be in the gown.”

She closes her eyes and her form shimmers.  In a few moments it solidifies, and the Inquisitor is resplendent in the gown she’s chosen.  Dark green fabric forms the high collar and long sleeves, as well as the voluminous skirt.  Golden accents make her seem to glow in the light, and she smiles as she looks down at herself.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, turning a little and watching the skirt swish with the movements.

“You chose well,” he agrees, then holds out a hand.  “May I have this dance, vhenan?”

She takes his hand, and he pulls her into the mass of elvhen dancers.  Persephone is a natural, easily picking up the steps that he took years to master.  She is, as always, graceful and light-footed.  Once again, he marvels at how she fits in among these memories of his home.  Her outcast status has nothing at all to do with _where_ she was born, but rather _when_.

“I’m the only person with a vallaslin,” she comments, eyes widening with her realization.  His mind turns quickly, trying to think of an explanation without telling her the truth of the marks on her face.  Not now, not when she’s so happy.  It would break her heart, and he doesn’t want that.  “Why does no one else have a vallaslin?”

“Wearing a vallaslin only became common practice after the fall of Elvhenan,” he tells her, which isn’t a _complete_ lie.  It was only after the fall of his home that the vallaslin became anything other than a slave marking.  “It was quite rare.  When the gods walked among the people, there was no need to honor them with permanent markings.”

He would have to tell her the truth eventually.  She deserves to know, deserves to understand the truth about the vallaslin.  She hates slavery as much as he does, possibly even more – she lost her mother to it, for one.  To discover that the marks she thought honored the gods really just stand for marks of slavery?  It would destroy her.  She would feel like she had betrayed her mother, but that isn’t it.  For once, he doesn’t blame the Dalish.  He understands how she sees them now.  Despite what those other elves did to her, she supports the Dalish attempts to preserve their culture.  The true meaning of the vallaslin was lost millennia ago, and today it has become something different.

“But they existed?” she asks, “Some elves wore them, even during the time of Arlathan?”

He nods, and her head tilts a little, eyebrows furrowing as she concentrates.

“So, did Fen’Harel have one?”

The question shocks him, though perhaps it should not.  Considering the memory he’s just seen, it is clear how much she preferred the Dread Wolf over the other gods.

“Yes,” he admits, “Although very few wore it.  Why, _vhenan_?  I would think that a hunter such as yourself would want to wear Andruil’s vallaslin.”

Persephone scowls at the mention of Andruil’s name, shaking her head.  “Andruil was cruel,” she spits, “I would never honor a goddess who would force a man to share her bed.”

Her eyes practically spit fire, and he smiles at her despite himself. 

“I once had a man try to force me,” she explains, and Solas tenses.  His protective instincts kick on, and his grip on her tightens.  He knows that whatever man did such a thing to Persephone is long gone, impossible to find, but he still wants to rip him apart.  “I’ve never been so afraid, Solas.  I had nightmares about it.  Only thing was, in that, I couldn’t fight him off.”

“I am sorry, vhenan.”

She must read in his face what he wishes to do, because she presses a kiss to his nose.  “It’s in the past, Solas.  If my clan did anything for me, it was take care of him.  He’s gone.  There’s nothing you can do.”

The song ends, and he pulls her off to the side of the room.  The night is almost gone, he can sense it, and he presses a kiss to her lips.  She sighs against his mouth, her hands resting on his shoulders.  His hands slide to her waist, pulling her close to him.  He loves her, loves her more than he thought was possible.  She is his everything, more important than even his cause.  Maybe he should just put it behind him, focus on her.  Marry her, have children, raise a family.  It’s all he can give her right now, and it’s not nearly enough.

He breaks the kiss, moving to whisper in her ear.  “Wake up, _vhenan._ ”

Persephone sits bolt upright in her bed, face flushed and breathing hard.  Despite the nightmares which plagued her earlier dreams, she’s smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from "Ballade to the Moon". And no, I won't stop making Fade references.


	4. Did I Make it That Easy To Walk Right In and Out Of My Life?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolf jokes, the Break Up, angry Persephone, angry Dorian, Varric, and Sera, Persephone takes out her rage on Bull, and Solas gets pranked.

“Solas is pissed at me.”

Persephone is curled up in Dorian’s chair, legs tucked into her chest with her chin on her knees.  She isn’t crying, but he can tell that she’s upset.  It’s the look in her eyes, the way she’s worrying her lower lip, and, most of all, the despondent tone in her voice.

“Why?” Dorian asks, setting down his book and focusing his attention on her.  She loves that stupid egg with her entire being, and he hates seeing her upset because _Sol-ass_ can’t comprehend the delicacies of other’s feelings.  Of course, he has an inkling of why Solas has lost his temper, but he wants to be sure.  Also, Persephone needs to talk about her issues.

“Because of the well, why else?” she asks, throwing her hands up and whacking the wall on accident.  She winces.  “I tried talking to Sera, but she just laughed at me.”

He raises an eyebrow at her.  “Did you _honestly_ expect Sera to be helpful, Persephone?”

She sighs, yet another despondent noise.  “No.”

His eyebrows go up higher, and she shakes her head.  He knew it was about the well, knew it instantly.  What else has she done that could possibly piss the egg off?  Nothing.  They agree on almost everything, except perhaps the Dalish.  Despite all she’s gone through with her clan, Persephone still loves them — _loved_ them, he reminds himself.  Almost all of them have been killed.  She’s lost everything.

“So, he’s upset because you drank from the well?” he asks, and she nods.  “Didn’t he _not_ want Morrigan to drink?”

She shrugs, then groans and lets her feet slide to the floor.  “I have no clue anymore, Dorian.  I thought he wouldn’t want her to drink it, but he got so upset when _I_ did, because apparently I just enslaved myself to Mythal…”  She’s rambling now, her hands scrubbing at her face or tugging at her ears.  “Falon’din, Dorian, I’m angry at myself now.  My mother gave me up so that I wouldn’t be a slave to Tevinter, and what the fuck have I done now?  Gone and made myself a slave.  I didn’t understand what I was doing, I just knew that I had to make a decision.  What if it was the wrong one?”

He doesn’t know what to say, how to comfort her, but she keeps going before he has a chance to even try to respond.  “But at the same time, I’m glad I didn’t let Morrigan drink.  She has Kieran, she can’t be a slave to Mythal.  What if something had gone wrong?  What if Mythal had called on her to do something dangerous, and she’d gotten herself killed?  It’s better this way.  We don’t have to worry about Kieran being orphaned.  But, still…”

She bites her lip, and Dorian leans over and takes her hand in his.  “Persephone, I don’t think that Solas is angry at _you._ ”

“You didn’t hear him yelling at me.”

He grins, a twitch of his lips that makes her scowl at him.  “Actually, I think everybody in this tower heard him yelling at you, Persephone.  But he’s more concerned about the slavery.  Think of how many times he’s yelled at me for slavery in Tevinter.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that… that…” her sadness is now turning to anger and frustration, and she pulls her hand from his in order to punch his bookcase.  A priceless copy of _The Dalish and Their Traditions_ falls to the floor, but he doesn’t react.  “Solas is a butt-face.”

“Undoubtedly,” Dorian replies, nodding, “What else?”

“He’s pretentious, he’s stubborn, he’s a fucking _egg_ …”

Dorian can’t suppress a chuckle at that, and she glares at him.  He puts his hands up, still laughing.  “Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles, “It’s just… His head _does_ resemble an egg.”

Her glare doesn’t falter, and _holy shit has she been taking lessons from Cassandra this is scary_.  He clears his throat, stopping his laughter.  “Sorry, continue.”

“And did you ever notice that when it rains, he smells like a wet dog?  What’s up with that?  Plus, he always assumes that he is _always_ correct.  It’s like he can’t be wrong.   _Please._ ”

As a matter of fact, Dorian has noticed a distinct smell of dog around Solas when the elf gets wet.  Also, he can’t forget the one night he went outside to relieve himself (when they were on a mission in the Hinterlands) and found Solas talking to wolves.  The wolves promptly turned around and left camp, and Solas never noticed Dorian peering out of his tent.

“He is a bit of a lone wolf,” he jokes, “Maybe that’s why he ends up smelling like a wet dog.”

_That_ gets a laugh out of Persephone, but she quickly turns back to her current quest of being frustrated about Solas.  However, she seems to have run out of bad things to say, and now she’s back to being sad.

“But we’re alike in a lot of ways,” she admits, “We both hate slavery, we both see spirits as people, we’re both afraid of being alone.”  She shakes her head a little, leaning her head against the bookcase she punched just a few minutes ago.  “I spent most of my life alone, but now that I have all of you, I can’t imagine losing you.  _Any_ of you.”

He can’t imagine losing her either, but he doesn’t say that.  He _can’t_ say that.  He just nods, and then hugs her.  It’s on instinct, but she hugs him back.  In her arms around him, he can feel every ounce of affection she has for him, and he hopes that she can feel the same. 

“I think you should go talk to Solas again,” he tells her, “explain your reasoning to him.  Tell him that you aren’t going to change just because some elven goddess thinks she has control over you.  He’s afraid for you, Persephone.  We all are.  We have no clue how this business with the well will end up affecting you in the long run.  And I may be integral to the Inquisition, having the best looks out of any of its members,” he grins, “But you are our leader.  You are more important than any of us.  His anger, though annoying, stems from his worry over you.  Besides, you can always kick him out if he gets too annoying.”

She shakes her head with an amused smile, but gives him a quiet whisper of thanks and runs off.  Moments later, Bull approaches him, and Dorian lets out a soft sigh of happiness.

“Boss having issues?” the Qunari asks him, and he nods, gesturing towards where Solas resides.

“Our resident apostate hobo is understandably upset over Persephone’s choice to drink from the well, since it apparently means she’s enslaved herself.”

Bull lets out a low whistle, crouching across from him.  “That’s rough.  You okay?”

Dorian shrugs, twisting one end of his moustache.  “I have a feeling that he isn’t telling her everything.  I don’t know _what_ he’s hiding, but it’s something, and she deserves to know the truth.  If he can’t give her that, then he doesn’t deserve her at all.”

\--

Varric is the first person to see the Inquisitor the next day, and he almost doesn’t recognize her.  Her vallaslin — the thing that marks her as Dalish, that have defined her face for as long as he’s known her — are gone.  He is understandably confused.  However, when he tries to ask her about it, she just shakes her head and hides her face, almost in shame.  He hears the words _bald elf bastard_ before Persephone runs off, leaving him wondering: what the hell has Solas done?

Solas is sitting at his desk when Varric bursts in, the dwarf’s face thunderous with anger.  He sets down his quill, the picture of calm. He isn’t surprised to see Varric here; their game of Wicked Grace a few weeks ago only cemented the evidence of a close friendship between Persephone and Master Tethras.

“What the hell did you do?”

That’s when he realizes that Varric isn’t alone.  He’s flanked by Sera and Dorian, and none of them look happy.  He feels a twitch of anger, and shakes his head.  They can’t hope to understand.  He did what he had to do, what is best for both him and Persephone.  Despite how much he loves the Inquisitor, he cannot tell her the truth.  She would never accept him if she knew who he truly was.

“What did I do?” He repeats, standing.  Sera has her bow out, and he would be lying if he said that that doesn’t make him a _little_ nervous.

“Her elfy tattoos!” Sera yells, and he arches an eyebrow.  The look on Sera’s face says that she wants to punch him.

“The vallaslin?” he asks.

“Whatever, arse-face.  You…”

“I removed them,” he confirms, “She wanted me to.”

Dorian looks relatively calm compared to the other two, but that doesn’t mean anything.  If anything, it means that he’s angry enough to warrant trying to control the anger to prevent possession.  Solas’ theory that Dorian is utterly pissed is confirmed by what happens next.

“Yes, you removed her only remaining tie to her clan, and then you broke up with her!” Dorian yells, pushing past the other two and approaching him, “You left her broken-hearted, and for _what_?”

He opens his mouth to say something, give an excuse (because they can’t know the truth; they will never understand why he did what he did), but Dorian shakes his head.

“No.  I don’t want to hear anything that comes out of your mouth.  She _loved_ you, you bastard!  She’d come and sit with me and tell me about how much she adored you!  She’d always bring you traveling because she wanted to be with you constantly, especially after Clan Lavellan fell.  You were all she had besides her damn vallaslin, and you took both from her.”

“I took the marks of slavery from her,” Solas responds, the volume of his voice rising.  He rarely yells, but he hates having to defend himself to a Tevinter slaver.  How could _he_ understand?  Every time Solas looked at her, the beauty of his vhenan was marred by those slave markings.  Meant to honor the gods, indeed.  The Dalish had once again forgotten the truth, and he could not bear to see a woman made of stars be tied to anyone in that way.  And he knows she hates slavery as much as he does; it was all he could give her.  He cannot tell her who _he_ is, but he can free her once and for all.  “I gave her what she wanted.”

“She wanted you,” Varric says, shaking his head, “Maker, Chuckles, all she ever wanted was you.  She had you remove her vallaslin because she trusted you to know what was best, that you had her best interests at heart.”

“What Tethras is trying to say,” Sera says, flipping him off, “Is fuck you, you right bastard.”

Then she hauls the other two out of the room, and the last thing said is from Sera, who shouts it over her shoulder.

“And your head looks like an egg!”

Solas is left alone, remembering what Persephone had told him once.

_“She said that your head looked like an egg, and that since eggs came from a chicken’s ass, some poor chicken shat you on the worst day of its life.”_

_“That certainly sounds like something Sera would say.”_

_“I told her that I thought you were handsome.”_

He deserves their anger, he knows that, but he’s angry enough with himself.  If he’d just been a little braver, he could have told her the truth.  He loves her still, doesn’t think he’ll ever stop, but he’s ruined it.

And that’s when he knows that he’ll have to leave after they defeat Corypheus.  He could have had a future with his vhenan, could have had children and a life.  He could have shown her his love for the rest of her life, but he’s too much of a coward.  He’ll always be Fen’Harel, and it’s impossible for anybody to love the Dread Wolf.  Not even a woman with as much compassion as Persephone Lavellan.  She’ll move on, he tells himself.  She’ll find someone else.  Cullen, perhaps, or maybe Josephine.  It hurts to think about her loving anybody else, but he’s lost his claim to her.

It’s better this way.  Better she doesn’t realize how much it hurts to be apart from her.  Better that she doesn’t think there’s still a chance.

\--

Persephone’s been feeling restless and angry, so she drags a couple of people out to the Emerald Graves to close the last of the rifts.  Not only is she unhappy to come back to the Emerald Graves (even though it’s the only place left with rifts, it’s where she and Solas did a lot of post Fade-Kiss bonding and she _really_ wants to forget that), but she has to drag the very egg she wants to avoid along because fucking Leliana wants some fucking elvhen artifacts and fucking Solas is the only fucking person who can sense when one is nearby (she thinks this loudly and repeatedly after Leliana asks her, leading to Cole making a comment about her language. She ignores him).  She brings Cole and Dorian as well, since she wants another mage in case she ends up knocking Solas out from sheer annoyance.

“She didn’t know what to choose.  Love. Warmth. Light.  Freedom.  _Him._ Or everything she’d known – loyalty. Honor. Wisdom.  But she chose him, and now her face in the mirror seems to taunt her, a reminder of how he left her.  Cold. Alone. Lost. Full of shame that heats her face and tears her in two.  Why did he leave her?”

Okay, she loves Cole, she really does, but she can’t deal with this right now.  It’s too raw, too new, too open and painful for him to poke at like this.  Already she can feel her face heating up, and her face feels bare.  She knows that there’s nodifference between having the vallaslin and not that she can actually physically _feel,_ but it still feels like she’s missing some integral part of herself.  And that missing piece isn’t Solas.

“Cole, please,” she says, as if pleading with him is going to do anything.  He knows she’s hurting, and he’s going to try to fix it.  Even if she doesn’t want him to.  She keeps hoping that, maybe if Solas sees how broken she is, he’ll come back.  He’ll see how much he fucked up.

Except she knows he won’t.  She loves him enough to know that he does what he thinks is best, even if it’s stupid and leads nowhere.

“She doesn’t understand.  She thinks that she wasn’t enough.  She doesn’t know about the old pain, from before, how torn he is.  She is light, but sometimes the light hurts his eyes.  The light reveals how broken he is, even if it is warmth and love and companionship.  He knows that he will only bring darkness.  The light will go out.  He will be the one to put it out, and he will be alone.  Lost, lonely, empty.  She will be gone.”

Now she’s interested, especially since Solas looks sharply at the spirit, who keeps babbling.  As usual, Persephone can’t make sense of a damn thing that he’s saying, but she’s committing it to memory.  If only to discover why the hell Solas thought he could just take her only reminder of her people and take it from her, and then leave her.

“With him, the others don’t matter.  The taunts don’t matter.  Flat-ear, shem slave, _freak._ He makes them disappear.  But he made the marks disappear too, and now he’s disappeared too.  Gone from her dreams, from her heart.  Where did he go?  Why?  Why was he so afraid?  Why can’t he look at her?  _Why can’t she stop loving him?_ ”

She grinds her teeth, and Dorian looks at her empathetically.  Well, at least it isn’t with pity.  She’s sick and tired of all the fucking pity.  She thought it was bad before she and Solas got together, when they’d make fun of her for being in love with him, when Cas would laugh or Dorian would shake his head or Varric would joke.  She thought that it couldn’t get worse than that.  But the sad look in Cullen’s eyes when he heard, the pity on Jo’s face — she’d rather have what was there before.

“He doesn’t know how to tell her why.  He couldn’t bear it, seeing her with the slave markings on her face.  She deserves to be free.  He was just giving her the freedom she’d strived for all of her life.  She is beautiful with or without the marks.  He just wants her to be safe.  But she never will be when she lets him in.  He wants to tell her the truth, but how can he?  How could she ever…”  Cole gasped, eyes going wide.  “It’s gone.”

“I am sorry, Cole,” Solas says, and he sounds genuinely sorry (but is he really?  He sounded sorry when he fucking left her in that damn clearing, but how could he be?) “But this is one hurt you cannot heal.”

She wants to scream from frustration.  She’s tired; she hasn’t slept well since they parted (although she’ll never give him _that_ satisfaction, he doesn’t need to know how much he calmed her dreams), and she’s stressed by every little thing that the people of Thedas want her to do.  Oh no, somebody’s pet nug stuck in a tree?  _Oh, Inquisitor, help me get Sir Nugglesworth down!_   She wants to stab someone, preferably someone with an egg head and butt chin who dresses like a hobo.

“Well, Solas, at least he gives me answers,” she says, voice coming out harsh.  She doesn’t really give a shit.  Elgarnan, when they get back to Skyhold she is _so_ recruiting Sera to prank Solas’ ass.  She wants to break his desk.  Also his stupid scaffolding.  “That’s more than _you’ve_ offered.”

She sees him wince, and she takes immense pleasure from that.  He’s a shithead anyway.  She doesn’t even care that he won’t even treat her as a friend anymore.

Oh, who is she kidding?  She’s still fucking infatuated with him, and every time he calls her _Inquisitor_ she feels her heart break a little bit more.  Well, fuck him.  And screw Sera; first thing she’s doing upon getting back to Skyhold is recruiting Bull to spar with her so that she can get her anger out on something.  Or _someone._ Then she’ll get Sera to replace everything Solas loves with tea.   Serves the egg right.

She pushes ahead to stand beside Dorian, who gives her a discreet high five.  Yes, she’s going to make Solas regret ever dumping her.

“I want to go fight that stupid dragon,” she says, “Let’s kick its ass.”

The dragon never stood a chance.

\--

“I hate him!”

Bull winces as the staff crashes against his chest, but nods sagely nevertheless as the five foot whatever Inquisitor takes out her anger towards her egg-headed apostate ex-boyfriend on him.  She’s been going at it for fifteen minutes, and it doesn’t seem like she’ll stop any time soon.  Not that he’s complaining; she needs to get this stuff off of her chest.  It won’t do to have the leader of the world’s only functioning peacekeeping organization to be up to the tips of her pointy ears in rage.

“Let it out, Boss,” he tells her, and she screams before letting go a barrage of hits, all of which connect painfully.  For someone two and a half feet shorter than him and skinnier overall than his bicep, Persephone is surprisingly strong.  Or maybe it’s just her anger at Solas.  He isn’t sure.

“He was a shitty boyfriend,” she seethes, taking a break from her abuse of his chest in order to catch her breath, “The most romantic encounter we had — no wait, _both_ of the most romantic encounters we had were in the Fade after I’d been having a really shitty time.  Example A?  We get to Skyhold and he and I are back in Haven.  We kiss.  Fade tongue happens.  Then I realize that, no, wait, the fucking Breach is still open, so it has to be a dream.  Then he wakes me up and proceeds to pretend like nothing happened for _three fucking weeks._ ”

He remembers this part; everybody does, actually.  Those three weeks were hell.  Persephone pining after him _even more,_ and Solas being a typical stick up the arse and not doing anything about his obvious feelings for her.

“Then,” she continues, and begins hitting him again, “ _Then,_ after Halamshiral — the Winter Palace, sorry, my fucking bad for referring to a place that the humans _stole_ from my people by its _actual fucking name_ — I had a nightmare, which occasionally happens to normal people, right?  And then he shows up after it ends and takes me to some ancient elvhen ball, where he proceeds to teach me how to make Fade clothes and then more Fade tongue happens.  See what I mean?”

“I understand, Boss,” Bull assures her, and _holy shit_ he thinks he’s going to have bruises for _weeks_ because of her.  “You know, maybe you should get a drink with Krem or something.  He seems pretty fond of you.”

“What a fucking surprise!” she exclaims, and she sounds _really_ sarcastic.  Or it might be another side effect of her anger.  He still can’t tell.  He’s usually really good at reading people, but Persephone’s sarcasm and anger don’t mix well.  Basically, when she’s angry, she sounds sarcastic.  It’s quite confusing.  “Okay, here’s the deal, Bull.  You know me.  You know I’m not picky about who I find hot.”

He does, in fact, know that the Inquisitor’s preferences are as varied as his own, so he nods.

“Okay, well I’ve thought Jo was the prettiest woman ever since the moment I laid eyes on her.  If it wasn’t for Solas being himself, I would have gone straight for her.  So I figured, hey, she’s still hot and she’s still available, why don’t I head on over and try to woo her?”

“How did it go?” he asks, even though he knows that it can’t have gone well.  They all know that she’s still in love with Solas, and nobody’s going to let her trick herself into thinking otherwise.

“She _rebuffed_ me!” She shrieks, “She told me that even though she cared for me deeply, I was too in love with him and that she couldn’t change that!”

“Do you want me to get Krem to have a drink with you?” he asks, “We can set up a game of Wicked Grace.  No elven apostate mages allowed.”

She drops the staff, breathing heavily and sweating.  Her eyes narrow for a moment as she looks at him, as if trying to judge his motives.  Then she nods.  “That would be… nice.  But I have to do something first.  With Sera.”

“Pranks?” he guesses, and the wicked grin that flashes across Persephone’s face is the only answer he needs.  “I want in.”

The next morning, Solas wakes up with a moustache drawn on his upper lip, scrolls of paper hanging from every available surface, and collapsed scaffolding.  As he enters his rotunda with a sigh, a large shape comes falling from above.

The Iron Bull crashes right through his desk, breaking it in half.  Then the Qunari gives him a salute and saunters away, followed by a sudden onslaught of small objects from above… wait _, leaves_?

A few land in the cup of water he is carrying, instantly beginning to turn the water brown.  Tea leaves.  Of course.

He isn’t even surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the song "Almost Lover"
> 
> Variants of the word "fuck" appear 17 times in this chapter. I apologize, but nobody was happy with Solas.


	5. Would You Let Him Make You Love Him?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen tries to help Persephone, Krem carries an elven lady, Persephone faints, and The Truth About Solas is revealed.

When Cullen goes to fetch the Inquisitor following her victorious return after the defeat of Corypheus, he doesn’t expect to find her crying on her bed.  Shit.  How is he supposed to handle this?  He knows what it’s about (not one person in Skyhold failed to notice the absence of Solas from the return party), but he doesn’t know how to comfort her.

“Persephone…” he begins, sitting on the edge of her bed gingerly.  She lifts her head a little to look at him, and proceeds to shake her head.

“He’s a bastard,” she manages, sniffling and sitting up.  She scoots closer to him, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.  “I don’t… he just _left._   He told me that he wanted to know that what we had was real, and then he just disappeared when I turned my back.  Not even a _goodbye._ Cullen, why’d he go?”

“I… I don’t know.  I’m sorry.”

She’s been angry ever since he broke up with her, but this is different.  This isn’t anger, this is just sadness.  She thinks he doesn’t love her enough to stay.  How can Cullen explain that every time he looked at Solas, the only thing he saw in his eyes was love for her?

“If this is love, I do not want it,” she tells him, “Why, Cullen?  Why does it hurt so much?”

She’s looking at him with watery eyes and tear-stained cheeks, the look that a little sister directs toward her big brother. 

“Because it was real,” he tells her, and she throws her arms around him and cries.

“I wish it wasn’t!”

“Don’t say that,” he tells her, trying to hug her back without bruising her from his armor.  “You can’t tell me that, after all of the happy times you had with him, you wish you hadn’t loved him.  If he showed up tomorrow, for the first time, and you _knew_ what would happen, what would you do?”

She shrugs a little, not lifting her head from his chest.

“Would you let him make you love him?” he asks, “Would you dare?”

She pulls away, wiping her tears away once more.  “Yes,” she decides, but them gives him a fierce look and a small smile.  “But, first, I’d punch him in the face.”

That’s the Inquisitor he’s come to know.  Speaking of punching Solas in the face, he has a proposition for her.  “You know, we might be able to find him.  With Corypheus gone, we can spend some resources on tracking him down.  But only if you want.”

“I’d like that,” she smiles, grabbing his hand and squeezing it.  “Thank you, Cullen.  Come on, we have a celebration to attend.  Krem owes me drinks.”

She stands up, pulling him with her despite their size difference.  She seems to have pushed the sadness away for now, and he’s glad.  If there’s anything worse than an _angry_ leader of a peace organization, it’s a depressed one.  But, wait… Krem owes her drinks?

“Why does Krem owe you drinks?” he asks her, bewildered.

“We had a bet,” she explains, “On how many total offers of marriage we’d get for you.  And me.  Combined.”

“Oh?” he asks.  He doesn’t want to say anything, but he’s curious as to how many people want to marry him (and slightly embarrassed about it).

“I said it would be more than thirty, he said that there was no way that many people would be willing to marry me.”  Her smile widens, and she laughs.  “I won.  Twenty-six for you, my friend, and five for me.  That’s thirty-one overall, which means that our friend Krem owes me drinks.  Thank you for being gorgeous and making every noble in Orlais fall in love with you.”

His expression is one of horror, and she can’t help but laugh more.  “A man grabbed my bottom!” he exclaims, and his voice rises an octave or so in indignation.

“Ah, yes, but your pretty face proved helpful to the Inquisition.  Good job.  Now let’s go get drinks.”

\--

It’s a month after the battle with Corypheus when Krem comes rushing into the throne room, where Persephone is passing judgement on some noble who tried to kill another clan of Dalish elves.  She’s taking great pleasure in deciding what to do with him.

“Take his lands and give them to the clan,” she decides, “tattoo the word _shemlen_ on his neck, and then send him to be a servant to the clan he tried to destroy.  Dismissed.”

The look of horror on the man’s face would bring her even more happiness if it wasn’t for the panic on Krem’s.  He’s got a woman in his arms, an elven woman.  Persephone jumps up from her throne, rushing to meet him.

“What’s going on?” she demands, concern etched into her expression.  She’s seen too many elves hurt through her rule, and she refuses to watch another one die.

“She showed up at the gates,” Krem replies, shifting her in his arms, “I can’t tell if she’s injured or sick or what, but…” he shrugs helplessly.  “She kept asking for you.  Said she had to ask you something.”

Persephone looks at the barely conscious elf in his arms.  There’s something familiar about her face, in the curve of her cheekbones and the tilt of her nose.  Her hair is turning grey, and she looks tired and sickly thin.  “Lethallan?” Persephone asks, reaching out to brush a finger along the woman’s face.  Her eyes fly open, fear coloring her expression as she stares up at them.  But then her eyes meet Persephone’s, and she smiles.

“An elf named Persephone,” she murmurs, “I knew you were destined for grand things… my daughter.”

Krem’s eyes flick to hers, and Persephone stares back at him in shock.  She suddenly can’t breathe, and the room seems to be spinning.  This is her mother?  This sickly elvhen woman?

“She has your eyes,” Krem whispers, and, yes, this woman does have the same vibrant green eyes that have stared back at Persephone every time she sees her reflection.

“Mother?” she asks, blinking to try and get the room to settle, “You’re my mother?  How did you… how did you find me?”

“How many Dalish elves are there named Persephone?” she asks, “I escaped.  I ran, and I found you.  Da’len, I am sorry.  For giving you up, for everything.  Forgive me?”

In front of the huge crowd gathered to watch the judgement, Persephone Lavellan faints.

When she wakes up, Dorian is wiping her forehead with a damp cloth, and her head feels like every single one of Bull’s Chargers decided to attack her skull.  Needless to say, the feeling isn’t pleasant, and she doesn’t even remember _why_ she has the headache for a moment.  Is it a hangover?  Did they get into a game of Wicked Grace and she drank herself into a blackout?

But she remembers something about Krem, and she remembers passing out.  This confuses her more, at least until she sees the woman lying on a cot that has been set up beside her bed. Then the memories return, and the headache gets worse.  Her mother.  Her mother has found her, after twenty-five years. 

“Are you angry at me?” her mother asks, “Can you forgive me for giving you up?”

Persephone sits up, ignoring Dorian’s protests, and reaches for her mother’s hand.  “ _Mama,”_ she breathes, “I could never be angry with you for saving me from slavery.  I have tried my hardest to make your sacrifice worth it.  To never fall prey to the thing that kept us apart.”

“They say it was Clan Lavellan who took you in,” her mother whispers, sitting up, “It is not my clan, but I am glad nevertheless.  I am Era’latha, of Clan Sabrae.”

“You wear the vallaslin of June,” she notes.  It’s another surprise in a day of surprises that her mother lived long enough in her clan to gain her vallaslin.  “They told me that you knew nothing of our ways.  That you knew no elvhen.  That you named me Persephone because you only knew the names of the _shem._ ”

“Is that the lie that the witch told them?” Era’latha asks with a bitter laugh, “That I knew so little of our culture that I could not even _name_ you?  No, da’len.  I chose a name for you, but part of the deal that was struck was to name you after _her._ ”

“But… why?” Persephone asks.  She barely notices Dorian slipping out of her quarters, her attention is so focused on her mother.  “Why was that part of the deal?  I don’t understand, why would she want a girl whose only future was hunting for a clan to have her name?”

“Perhaps she guessed at this,” Era’latha says, making a vague gesture meant to signify the entire Inquisition and everything that has happened to Persephone.  “I do not know the extent of her powers, da’len, only what she asked of me.  If she took you to the Dalish for me, and told them your origins, I would name her after you.  I assumed that your new clan would change your name to something more elvhen.  I never suspected that she would lie about what I wanted your name to be.”  She lets out a slow breath, shaking her head.

“Mama, what was my name _meant_ to be?”

Everything makes sense suddenly, why she has a _shemlen_ name, why she was brought not to her mother’s clan but to one who would have never encountered her, so that the lie would be believed.  This is her only question, or at least the only one that now matters.  Era’latha turns her hand over, her fingers tracing the small birthmark on the inside of her wrist.  She hasn’t thought about the thing in years, but she knows its shape by heart.  It’s tan, dark against her pale skin, and it’s in the shape of a fang.  She distinctly recalls Solas pressing his lips to it once, after a particularly bad nightmare recalling one of the darker moments with her clan.  How many times had he calmed her dreams?  Too many to count, and she frowns a little as the hole in her heart becomes apparent once more.  She’d pleaded with him at first, begged him to stay, then sorrow had turned to anger.  Now she’s back at this overwhelming sadness which threatens to drown her.

The worst part?  She knows that he’s lied.  She knows that the village he said was his home has been gone for centuries, and that it’s possible he never loved her at all.  It’s possible that everything he said was a lie.  That’s what Leliana wants her to believe, at least.  They’re still searching for him, but she reminds Persephone on a regular basis that he might not be what she thinks he is.  Even so, Persephone can’t believe that what they had wasn’t real.  It’s in the way that he spoke to her after Corypheus’ defeat that gives her hope.

_I want you to know that what we had was real._

Those weren’t empty words.  She refuses to believe that they were.

“Fen’Lethal,” Era’latha murmurs, gazing into her eyes with love.  “Your name is Fen’Lethal.  Because of this.”  She brings her wrist up, her finger still resting on the birth mark.  Wolf kin.  Of course.  “There was a ha’hren who lived in a nearby hovel,” she begins, her voice still low.  “Her owners tried to use her in a blood magic ritual – it broke her mind.  Or so we thought.  She always spoke of my unborn child, once I discovered my pregnancy…” she shakes her head, then continues.  “Talk of betrayal, about a huntress who would hunt with the Dread Wolf, who would reach greatness and wear the vallaslin of Dirthamen…”

She stops telling her story, seemingly noticing for the first time that her daughter’s face is bare.  Persephone – Fen’Lethal? She doesn’t know if she can use a new name now, with everything that’s happened – feels her cheeks heat in shame, and she ducks her head.

“Why don’t you wear a vallaslin?”

Betrayal?  She wants to laugh.  Obviously this ha’hren’s mind was not broken at all.  Persephone has been betrayed over, and over, and over.  It never gets any easier.  And when the betrayer is your heart…

It makes the pain all the worse.

“I…” she begins, then shakes her head.  She can’t tell her mama this, can’t talk about what happened between her and Solas.  But she is a storyteller for a reason (when they met the Dalish clan in the Exalted Plains, and she told them the stories that she’d created as well as ones they all knew, they’d nicknamed her _Era’lan_ with a tenderness she’d come to doubt that Dalish elves could possess), and so she tells it as if it is nothing but a story.  One of Varric’s novels.  An old tale.

“There was a Dalish elf with a _shem_ name,” she begins, and though it feels strange to speak of herself in the third person, she carries on.  “She wore the vallaslin of Dirthamen, and was seeking secrets at an important peace concord when tragedy struck.  She heard cries for help, and found a monster with an orb trying to kill an important _shem_ woman.  The orb fell, and she dove for it, acting only on instinct.  It left her with a mark on her hand, an imprint of the magic it held.  A rift in the veil appeared, and the woman and the elf were pulled into the Fade.  But the monster pursued them, and they were forced to run for their lives.  The climbed a mountain, but before they could leave, the woman sacrificed herself to ensure the elf’s escape.”  She’s becoming more comfortable as she continues, the words flowing more easily from her.  “She was found, the only survivor of the tragedy, and was taken into custody, assumed to be the one who had caused it.  An elven apostate watched over her while she was unconscious, studying the mark in an attempt to keep it from engulfing her.”  A rueful smile as she glances down at her hand. “He succeeded.  When she awoke and saved the people from another rift, the _shem_ began calling her the Herald of Andraste.  She allowed this, as it would keep the people happy even if she did not believe their words.  And she befriended the apostate, whose name meant pride in the language of her people.  Solas.”

It hurts to say his name, but her mother is enraptured by her story, and she needs to get this off of her chest.  Era’latha deserves to know the truth of what happened, and it’s for the best that she hears it from Persephone.

“But she quickly came to see Solas as more than just a friend.  He charmed her with his knowledge on the Fade, and though his views on the Dalish were negative, she understood them.  For she, too, had face prejudice from her people.  Her childhood had been marred by bullying and persecution, the other children excluding her or otherwise abusing her with words and stones.  Her only solace was the statues of Fen’Harel outside of their camps.  The Dread Wolf had never seemed evil to her, only lonely.  And she was lonely, so she looked to him for guidance.  And now she looked to Solas for guidance.  She fell in love with him, and he was her ha’hren.  He helped her lead the people who looked to her, and that only endeared her to him further.  After the monster, Corypheus, attacked her home, he helped her find an ancient elvhen fortress.  It was there that the Inquisition was formed, and it was there that she became Inquisitor Lavellan.”

Her mother’s hand is in hers again, and she smiles a little.  This is the happy part, even if she can hear the sadness in her own voice as she tells her story.

“He brought her to the Fade, to a memory of Haven, where they had resided before.  He told her that she changed everything, and she kissed him on impulse.  She never expected him to return her affection, but he did.  And though the next day he said he needed time to think over what should happen between them next, he did not turn her away, and they shared many tender moments.  When she failed to save one of his friends – a spirit who had been corrupted by mages – they were both upset over it, but he kissed her again, and he called her his _vhenan._ And that is how he captured her heart.”

Era’latha opens her mouth to comment, but Persephone shakes her head.  “That was not the end of their tale, however.  They had many adventures together as Persephone tried to track down and defeat Corypheus.  Once, she drank from the Well of Sorrows, although Solas advised against it.  Only afterward did she discover why.”  This still stings, the reminder that she’s still tied to Mythal, a _slave_ despite all she’d done to keep herself from her mother’s fate.  She drops her voice low, a storytelling technique she’s picked up over the years, and explains: “By drinking from the Well, she had essentially enslaved herself to the goddess Mythal.  Neither she nor Solas were fond of slavery, and the revelation of what she’d done shook her to the core.  Her mother had given her up to keep her from slavery, and she had rendered that sacrifice obsolete.  But that was not the worst thing that happened.”

Her words almost get stuck in her throat, and it feels as though somebody is squeezing her heart in their fist.  She can feel tears pricking her eyes, and she desperately wants to cry.  There are still so many unanswered questions, and she can only play at being at peace.  Krem comforts her, and she has _some_ affection for him (although it is different from how she feels for Solas; it is closer to her love of Dorian.  A deep friendship, perhaps?), but he is not her _vhenan._ Only one man can claim that, and he has left from her life.

“He took her to a secluded spot, and told her that he had a gift to give her.  She wondered at what it could possibly be, but he told her that she deserved the truth, and then told her something that had been lost to time.  The vallaslin that marked her face, that honored Dirthamen, was not what the Dalish believed it to be.  Rather, the vallaslin was…” She takes a deep, shuddering breath, blinking in an attempt to clear her eyes of tears.  She thought it hurt when he left her bare-faced and broken hearted, but this hurts more.  Her friends all guessed what had happened, or had managed to get enough out of her to piece it together, but she’s never had to relive the whole experience before.  “The vallaslin was nothing more than the markings of a slave.  In Ancient Elvhenan, nobles marked their slaves to match the gods they honored, and followers of the gods marked their own faces to show their devotion.” She shakes her head.  “I… the elf… Solas offered to remove the marks from her face.  She had no idea what to do.  All she’d ever wanted was to fit in among the Dalish, and now she discovered that fitting in meant being a slave.  So she let him remove them, because freedom was more precious to her than anything else.  And then he left her.”

Her mother seems shocked by this, her hand flying to her mouth.  Persephone’s tears are falling freely now, and she can’t get her breathing under control.

“Then he left the Inquisition,” she finishes, “And still the elf searches for her pride, her _vhenan,_ her Solas.  But she doesn’t know if she’ll ever find him.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, shame and pain and everything she felt on that last night washing over her once more.  She must be such a disappointment.  She hasn’t done anything right.  The tears are still streaming down her cheeks, and she’s trying to keep her crying silent, but there’s nothing she can do about her hyperventilating.

“Oh, da’len,” Era’latha murmurs, pulling her into a tight hug, “heartbreak is the hardest thing we can endure.  I am sorry that you have had so much of it.  I wish that you had not.”

“I still love him, mama,” she whispers, “I don’t want to, but I do.  If I could, I would move on.  But he is my _vhenan._ He holds my heart, broken as it is.  And I cannot change that.  And I know that he still loves me.  I know him too well to believe otherwise.”

“Find him, da’lethal,” her mama tells her, “If you love him, find him.  Do not let him walk away. You are Fen’Lethal.  You are a wolf, a huntress, a pack animal.  Find him, and bring him back to you.  I know that you can, my daughter.”

\--

It takes three days to plan the trip, and four more to convince her friends (her clan, her pack, her family) to let her go after the apostate alone.  Therefore, she isn’t ready to go for a week, and that’s when Era’latha collapses, just when she’s about to leave.  Krem catches her mother in his arms, and her heart catches in her throat.  No, no, she thinks, this cannot be happening.  She cannot lose her mama so soon after finding her.

“Dorian!” she yells, wild eyes finding the necromancer.  He is already making his way towards her mother, and soon enough his fingers are settled on her skin, his magic probing to see what has gone wrong.  Fear is drowning her, and she needs to know what is afflicting her mama.

“I… I can’t tell,” he admits, and there is frustration and anger in his voice at his failure.  Persephone dismounts her hart and rushes to her mother’s side, her hand finding Era’latha’s.

“Mama,” she whispers, and the woman’s eyes crack open a little.

“Da’len…” she whispers, “Go…”

“I won’t leave you,” she protests.  Solas can wait; she will find him someday.  It does not necessarily have to be at this moment, especially not with her mother in such a bad shape.

“Find him,” Era’latha insists, “I want to meet him.  I will hold out for you, _‘ma lath_.  Go!”

She looks at Krem, and he meets her eyes, nodding.  “We’ll watch over her, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she tells him, and then she’s galloping out of Skyhold on her hart, desperate to find Solas before it is too late for her mother.  Leliana and Cullen have managed to amass reports of possible sightings of the apostate, and she has taken these reports and put them on her map in a general outline of what path he has taken.  At first, there seems to be no pattern, but with close examination one appears.

It’s when she’s settled down to sleep the first night that she is plagued by the voices from the Well.

_Fen’Harel.  You seek the Dread Wolf._

No, not now.  She desperately wants to tell Mythal to fuck off, but the voices don’t cease.  Instead, they simply grow stronger.  When she finally falls asleep, her dreams are uneasy and full of a white wolf who is always just out of reach.  No matter how long she chases it for, she can never catch up to it.  Just before she awakes, the wolf turns around and she sees that it has six eyes.

Fen’Harel.

The dreams get progressively stranger as she spends more time away from the Inquisition, featuring various ancient elves and occasionally some of the gods.  However, it is her last night in the wilderness when the Well and its inhabitants are actually helpful.  As with the first night, she’s following the Dread Wolf, but this time she gets close enough to grab his fur and hold on.  Then, right beneath her fingers, he turns into Solas.

She’s understandably shocked by this, and she can’t help the quiet murmur of his name that falls from her lips.  She would discount it as nothing if it weren’t for the way his eyes widen when he sees her, the way his lips silently form her name, and the way he runs away seconds later.  Before her mind can comprehend what she has just seen, she wakes up, and the last night’s dream is a blur. 

She continues on her way, and reaches Solas just past midday.  When she does, everything comes rushing back.  The dream, the realization of who he is, who he _truly_ is.

When she greets him, it isn’t with _vhenan._ It isn’t even with Solas.  It’s with his true name.

“Fen’Harel.”

He stiffens, and she knows what he’s about to do.  Leave again, leave her all alone and without some of the expertise needed to save her mother.  So she reaches out and grabs his hand, refusing to let him run.  Not this time.  She has gone through too much to lose him again, and whatever his fears are about her knowing his true name, she will placate them.  The Well showed her his crimes, but he is, first of all, her _vhenan,_ and he did not know what would come of giving the orb to Corypheus.

Slowly, he turns so that he is facing her, and there’s a terrible sadness in his eyes.  His mouth opens, but for once the eloquent man is at a loss for words.  She shakes her head a little.

“May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent,” Persephone says, “That’s what they used to tell us, as children.  But I was different.  You know that.  You know how I felt about him… _you._ Did you think I would love you any less?  Do you not trust me, _vhenan_?”

“You do not know what I have done,” he tells her, shaking his head, “You do not know the terrible acts I have committed…”

“Oh, but don’t I?”  She gives him a sad smile, tugging on his hand.  “The orb, Corypheus, this mark… it was all you, Fen’Harel.  All you.”

His eyes are searching her face for lies, but there is no trace of dishonesty in her features.  She will not lie to him; she would never lie to him.  She treasures him too much to tell him anything but the truth.  Lies hold no appeal to her, unless they are absolutely necessary.

“Come home,” she whispers, reaching with her other hand to cup his cheek, “Come back home, _vhenan._   We need you.  _I_ need you.”

“After all I’ve done?” he asks, eyebrows knitting together, “After the lies, after you finding out who I really am?  You still love me?”

She laughs at that, bringing his hand up to her lips and pressing a kiss to it.  “I never stopped, _vhenan._ And you are not the only one with a hidden name, my heart, my soul, my _pride_.”

He looks at her quizzically,and she shows him the inside of her wrist, the mark there that he’s kissed countless times.  It’s a symbol of who she is now, she thinks, the mark of a woman who loves the Dread Wolf, the mark of a woman who is a hunter in her own right, who grew into who she was meant to be.

“My name isn’t Persephone,” she tells him, closing the distance between them.  “I found my mother, and she told me the truth.  I am Fen’Lethal.”

She presses a kiss to his lips, and then other kisses to his cheeks.  The elves have a saying when they love somebody; they call their love the Keeper of their heart.  But he is more than just the Keeper of her heart – he _is_ her heart, for better or for worse.  Once, he promised that everything would be made clear, and now it has been.

His cheeks are wet with tears.  Why is he crying?  She pulls away, confused, and cups his face in delicate hands.  “Fen’Harel?”

He shakes his head, a watery smile spreading across his face.  “Never,” he breathes, “Never have I heard my name said with so much love.”

“Ar lath ma,” she tells him, and she repeats them as if they are a mantra, falling from her lips as she holds him.  “Ar lath ma.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a long one, and I had to cut myself off before it got any longer. Oops.
> 
> Lily suggested that I title this chapter "Neminem", meaning "nobody" in Latin (although "only as a direct object of the sentence"), but I titled it with a quote from "What Would You Do?" from the musical If/Then
> 
> Today (6/3/2105) is National Egg Day. 
> 
> "Today is the day that we shall celebrate Solas' egginess, because he is a fucking egg" -Lily


	6. Dear Fellow Traveler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traveling together, the nightmares return, Dorian refers to Solas as a bag of dicks, Solas meets Mom, and shit goes down at a war council meeting.

They both expect things to have changed between them in their time apart, but they quickly fall back into a comfortable routine.  Persephone doesn’t know what she thought would be different about Solas, but she finds him the same as he always has been, if only a bit less mysterious.  As for what he expected from her… well.

He doesn’t expect her to forgive him so quickly, to smile at him with her bright green eyes and cheeks flushed with happiness.  He doesn’t expect her to hold his hand like she used to, lacing her fingers through his as if he’s the only thing left for her to hold onto in this world.  She’s just as bright as she was, though he broke her heart (and he regrets nothing more than that, nothing more than leaving her crying in that glen), though he left her alone.  Even though he is unworthy of her love, she still loves him, and it’s miraculous to realize that he isn’t alone.

The only difference he can see is that her confidence has increased.  It seems that the discovery of her name led to a discovery of herself, a discovery of the woman he has always seen within her.  The fear is gone, any trace of the terrified Dalish girl wiped clean from her face.  She is so beautiful, and he is so proud of her.

She tells him of her mother, speaking with the excitement he knows so well, her voice dropping to just above a whisper as she gestures (sometimes with their clasped hands, which causes her to laugh) to emphasize certain words.  But she falters as she reaches the tale of her leaving Skyhold, her smile fading momentarily.

“She just… collapsed,” she murmurs, her hand squeezing his.  He can feel her heartbeat through her palm, fast and fluttery, like that of a bird.  “Krem caught her, of course — he’s so kind, _Hahren,_ a wonderful friend and I can understand why he and Bull are so close — but I was so worried.  I have no idea what could be wrong with her.  Could they have done something to her, in Tevinter?  Dorian could not understand what was wrong with her.  Do you think you could?”

She is so eager to hear his answer, so concerned for her mother, that even if she was not his _vhenan_ he would be unable to turn her down.  He knows that Dorian will do his best, but the man is not an elf, and therefore has no knowledge of what is abnormal for an elf.  He is not belittling Dorian’s knowledge or calling the Tevinter ignorant (despite his attempts to dislike the man, Dorian Pavus has grown on him, dare he say to a point of shaky friendship), but simply stating what he knows to be true.  Very few people other than elves are educated in the finer points of elven body systems, and Dorian is not one of them.

Not to mention the fact that Solas has had millennia to perfect his healing art, while Dorian is much better at throwing around fire than knitting together bone.

“I will do my best,” he says, and that is all she needs to hear from him.  Her smile returns, as bright as ever, and it warms Fen’Harel’s heart like the sun warms the earth.  The sun is bright and so is she, her spirit burning just as brightly – no, brighter, _better,_ because the sun has been used by Elgar’nan to scorch the earth but she could ever be used that way, not even by one of his brethren.  The only person who could use that bright beauty for vengeance would be his _vhenan_ herself, but she is too full of compassion to partake in such a terrible act.

“Thank you, _vhenan,_ ” she breathes, and he never ceases to be amazed with how deeply she has interred herself in his life, in who he is.  He never ceases to be amazed with how much he loves her, and how much she loves him.

That night, before he slips into the Fade, she lays beside him and curls up into his chest.  He wraps his arms around her and she exhales, releasing her stress and tension with a single sigh.  Persephone places her hands over his as her own eyes flutter closed, her lips parting with another soft sigh, this one of happiness.  His heart twists in his chest; he does not deserve her forgiveness, does not deserve her love, does not deserve her smiles and her joy.

“Stop it,” she murmurs, squeezing his hand, “I know you’re thinking dark thoughts, and you can stop.  Don’t hate yourself, vhenan.  I won’t…” she yawns, sticks her cold toes against his warm legs, and continues. “I won’t allow it.”

“What will you do to stop me?” he asks, ever amused by Persephone’s curious wording of things.  She shrugs, pushing her head into his arm.

“I’m the Inquisitor.  I’ll think of something.”

And then she drifts off to sleep in his arms, her breathing going soft and even.  Her face is so peaceful in sleep, devoid of the responsibilities which plague her during the day.  Without the vallaslin she is even more beautiful, her features unmarked by the marks of slavery.  He took the name pride to remind himself of his downfall, but he has never been prouder than when she looked at him and told him to take the vallaslin from her face.  She was raised as a Dalish but she is so much more; she’s a dreamer and a slave’s daughter, a girl who never knew her mother because of slavery and so cannot allow herself to be enslaved.  She is so, so strong, and she is _his._

No, not his.  She belongs to no one.  But she keeps his heart and so has become it, and she is free to do with it as she wants.  As she said, she is the Inquisitor.  He can do nothing to stop her.

\--

Despite the proximity of Fen’Harel, Persephone suffers from terrible nightmares.  It's a new twist of an old fear, one based off of childhood dreams turned sour combined with recent events in her life..  When she was a child, scarcely older than ten summers, she wanted nothing more than to become Keeper of her clan.  She dreamt of the day that she would gain magic and rise to the position of First, the day that Clan Lavellan would finally accept her.  But the magic never came and she instead learned of the horrors that can befall mages, and the dream turned into a nightmare that still haunts her.

In the dream she is herself but not quite, different in the small ways.  Younger, a mage, with the vallaslin of Elgar’nan marking her face instead of Dirthamen’s mark.  She is with Solas in the grove where he took her vallaslin, but this is not _her_ Solas.  He is softer, more open, the mask less quick to fall into place.  And this time, when he turns away with the removal of the vallaslin, she does not shout angrily at him.  Persephone has no control over what she says but the words that fall from her lips are said in her voice anyway.

“Please don’t leave me…”

But he leaves anyway and the Fade rushes into her and she screams, despair and rage filling her up and she calls the demon to her, lets it take control.  There is flame and fire everywhere and she can feel herself laughing even though her heart is broken.  She has no control, and she is so afraid while being uncaring. 

“ _Vhenan._ ”

She can hear Solas but can’t do anything, can’t stop the Abomination she’s become.  She feels large hands on her arms and she’s suddenly collapsing into the arms of Solas, _her_ Solas, magic-less once more except for the mark on her hand.  She can’t help the tears that trail down her cheeks, remembering what it was like to feel the Fade at her fingertips, to call on the fire and the demons.  Her face is buried in his shoulder but he puts a finger beneath her chin and makes her look at him as the Fade ripples around them, reforming as a beautiful ballroom.  She’s been here before, after Halam’shiral, although now the ballroom is empty except for the two of them and the band is playing a melancholy melody.

She is dressed once more in one of the beautiful gowns of Arlathan, although this one is deep red and sparkles in the candlelight.  Solas is clad in what he _must_ have worn as a member of the pantheon, and she wonders how it is possible that her _vhenan_ could become such an evil figure in the stories.  She turns and stares at the ballroom, which is gilded and gold with royal blue accents on the walls.

A silky voice joins the band and she is shocked to see that it is Solas, shocked to hear him singing to her.  He holds out a hand, a silent reminder of Halam’shiral – _come, before the band stops playing, dance with me_ – but doesn’t stop singing.  She takes his hand and he sweeps her out onto the dance floor, steps she has never followed before but knows nevertheless.  The song he sings touches her soul, makes her heart swell with the music, and she smiles.

 _“Ma vhenan, na melana na sahlin_  
_Var lath na uth, la iras ar hamin_  
 _Dirthera ar emma eth, emma vhenas_  
 _emma na vhenan, emma na lath.”_

She doesn’t know the song but she knows what he is singing to her about (our love is forever), knows at least enough elven for that.  _Tell me I am safe, I am home, I am your heart, I am your love._

“You are safe,” she whispers, kissing his jaw with a smile, “You are home, you are safe, you are my heart, and I love you.”

Solas smiles at her, and she nuzzles his neck.  “ _Ar lath ma_ , Fen’Harel,” she whispers into his skin and his grip on her tightens, not too much but just enough for her to know how he feels about her saying his name.

“Say it again,” he requests, his voice heavy, “Say it…”

She giggles, trailing kisses up to his lips.  “ _Ar lath ma,_ Fen’Harel.  _Na dara ma vhenan._ “

He kisses her back as he did that first time in the Fade, pressing her against him until her back arches and she has to cling to him to remain upright, breathless and weak-kneed.  She is holding onto him with fingers that dig into his back and he _growls,_ sending a shudder through her.  He bites her lip and then he pulls away, leaving her trembling and flushed and filled with happiness.

“There you go with the Fade Tongue again,” she laughs as he continues their dance as if he did not just kiss her senseless.  He smiles at her and it’s the sort of smile that sends a shiver through her, the smile of the Wolf in the old Dalish tale about the red-headed _da’len_ who attracted Fen’Harel’s attention.  She doesn’t have red hair but she has gotten his attention all the same, and the hungry smile does not scare her as other men’s have.  He hums for a few moments and then continues with his song.

 _“Ar ena in na nehn, in na numin_  
_Emma na mi la na hanin_  
 _Emma solas dara na vhenan_  
 _Var vir na nehn la lath.“_

_I am proud to be your heart._

“ _Din, vhenan, emma solas dara_ na _vhenan_.”

Knowing that she has captured the heart of an ancient elvhen, and the Dread Wolf at that, fills her with pride.  She is brought to a high by it, enough pride to make her shine with joy.  And as he spins her through the night the pride is not diminished, because she knows that even if he has to leave again she will find him, will bring him back to her.  He wants to save the People but they can do it together, can do it without him having to be alone.

He cannot hide from her because for all that he has caught her scent she has caught his too, and she will never lose it.

\--

Dorian has no clue what he’s doing.  Persephone runs off to find her elven lover and leaves him with her mother, which isn’t fair at all.  One, she shouldn’t even be bothering with the actual bag of dicks that is Solas, and two, he isn’t a healer.  He can conjure a wall of fire, can call on spirits and raise the dead, but he cannot knit together skin or fix a broken bone.  Whatever plagues Era’latha is beyond his knowledge, though he loathes to admit it; he fears some sort of side effect from a blood magic ritual, though he can see no marks on her.  Well at least no marks other than those of her vallaslin, those cobalt lines which trace her skin.

She is uncomfortable around him, which he understands but is hurt by nevertheless.  This woman has known nothing but cruelty from his people, and he has not had the chance to prove that he is any different.  Shame wells within him as it does daily, every time he looks at Persephone and remembers what her people have gone through at the hands of _his_ people.  Shame for not knowing better, shame for not doing as Solas had once suggested and simply freeing every slave in the Tevinter Imperium. 

If he could, if he knew that it would not end in his death, he _would_ free them.  He would walk through every city in his country and free them one by one, reunite families and give them the money that they have earned through their impossibly hard work.  He would help Persephone raise her people from their low status, help her rebuild Arlathan if he thought that the world would allow it.

He gives Era’latha broth and bread, trying to keep her strength up.  She was frail to begin with but now she is even _more_ sickly, her ribs and shoulder blades sharp under her weathered skin.  He searches for her sickness but it eludes him, hides beyond the edges of his magic.

“Has Fen’Lethal returned?” she asks him one day, and it takes him a moment to remember that Fen’Lethal is Persephone’s birth name, that his darling Inquisitor has had a secret identity which she never knew.

“I’m afraid not, madam,” he says, “I have no idea how long her journey will last.  Her apostate is quite elusive, and I do not know if it will be possible to find him.”

For Era’latha’s sake he hopes that she _does_ find him, because he needs the apostate to heal the woman in his care.  He’s even asked Vivienne to help, for the Inquisitor’s sake, but Madame de Fer is as lost on the matter as he is.  No sooner has he finished placing her empty bowl near the door then Persephone herself comes flying through it, almost hitting him in the face with the edge of the solid wooden door.

“Maker, Persephone!” he shouts, falling away from the door and knocking his elbow against one of the stone stairs.  She sends him a rushed “sorry”, but runs right up the stairs, one bald elf in tow.

“Solas?” he asks, but is ignored.  Huffing, Dorian stands up and trudges up the stairs after the pair, cradling his throbbing elbow.  Those stupid elves rush everywhere, leaving the ones they call “quick bloods” to move slowly after them.

“Mamae!” the Inquisitor exclaims, rushing to the side of the grand bed, “Are you okay?”

Era’latha smiles at her daughter, though the expression appears strained on the woman’s face.  “I have been better,” she confesses, “Years of slavery have caught up to me, it seems.  I am an old woman, _da’vhenan._ It was only a matter of time before I grew ill.”

“But…”

Persephone appears so young, staring helplessly at her mother, and Dorian knows what she is thinking.  It’s what _he_ thought at his mother’s deathbed; that she was too young, that she could not die and leave him all alone.  He sees the same desperation on his friend’s face as she reaches for her mother’s hand.

“Is this your _vhenan_?” Era’latha asks, gesturing to Solas.  She lowers her voice conspiratorially, humor slipping into her tone, “Oh, he _is_ handsome, _da’nehn_.”

Persephone gives her a sad smile, “Thank you, _mamae._ ”

“He reminds me of your father, in a way,” she continues, “Something about him…”

Dorian simply stares at Solas, suddenly feeling a very strong urge to punch him in the face.  This is the man who left Persephone, who made her cry and made her explode with rage.  But not yet, not when he’s moving towards Persephone’s mother with outstretched hands already aglow with healing magic.  Persephone backs away to give him space, and she shares a look with Dorian that says _please don’t do anything._   He gives her a shrug in return to convey his inability to promise any such thing, and she shakes her head with a faint smile.

“This is a deep and old wound,” Solas remarks from where he leans over Era’latha, “Dorian, do Tevinter slave owners do anything to mark their slaves?”

There is a strange lack of accusation in his question, and it is _that_ which leaves Dorian floundering for an instant.  Usually any mention of Tevinter by Solas is accompanied by biting looks in Dorian’s direction, a metaphorical finger pointing out the fact that he is one of the people who have imprisoned elves for centuries.

“I suppose some might,” he finally says, “My family never has, however.”  He steps towards the bed, brow furrowing in concentration, an attempt to understand.  “You believe her illness to be some sort of… _ownership_ mark?  To do what, sicken her if she should try to escape?”

Persephone scowls from where she is leaning against the wall, and Dorian feels his heart twist.  He is so ashamed at what his people have done, and he is sure that she must hate him for being a Tevinter, when all his people have brought her is pain.  He finds himself even now unable to accept that she loves him unconditionally, although she has told him so hundreds of times, and Bull has backed up the statement (usually with some variant of “I’m Ben’Hassrath, I should know”).

She must notice the hurt and shame on his face because she chases away the scowl with a smile, brushing a few strands of brunette hair from her forehead.  “Thank you for taking care of her, _falon_ ,” she tells him, “You have done so much for me, and I do not know how to thank you.”

“Name your child after me,” he says instantly, only half-joking.  Solas splutters a little and Era’latha laughs, the sound clear despite being weak.  Persephone grins a little, shaking her head in amusement.

“I don’t know about _first_ names, but I will at least do so for my possible future son’s middle name.  Anyway.”  She returns her attention to Solas, to the problem at hand.  “ _Vhenan,_ can you remove the slave mark?”

“With time,” Solas affirms, nodding.  “However…” here he hesitates, looking at her – more specifically, the hand with the Anchor.  “I may need you to assist.”

“The Anchor?” Dorian asks incredulously, “How will that help?”

Persephone sends him a pleading look that he can tell is supposed to mean: _We’ll talk about this later_ , and so he simply leaves the room.  Weird elves and their weird elf rituals.  What do they plan to do, open a breach?  Walk physically in the Fade again? 

He shudders.  Maker, he hopes not.  He nearly had a heart attack when he heard about her _last_ stroll through the Fade; he firmly believes that his heart will give out under the stress of her going on another outing in the Fade.  After all, his family _is_ known for their weak hearts.

\--

Nobody hears from Solas or the Inquisitor for two days.  Her advisors are beside themselves with worry, and her Inner Circle is equally nervous.  They hold meetings without her, mostly about how to deal with Solas’ sudden reappearance.  Leliana sends a raven demanding that they hold him in a cell until she can escape her duties as Divine and come question him herself, but they tell her quickly that Persephone has promised them answers.  Cullen, Dorian, Varric, and Bull are all for punching Solas in the face.  Actually, everybody except Josephine agrees with that course of action.  Josephine suggests instead that they send him a rather scathing letter.  This is pointed out to be unnecessary, as he is back under the Inquisition’s eye, and they can just give him scathing words instead of a scathing letter.

They still haven’t decided what to do when Persephone stumbles into the War Council on the evening of the third day, Solas in tow.  She just points at him, Anchor sparking faintly in her palm, says, “He’ll explain,” and then collapses into the nearest chair.

Solas skims over the healing process that they have just completed, only saying that he and Persephone have succeeded in restoring Era’latha’s health.  Dorian lets out a sigh of relief at this, and Persephone smiles faintly.  She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, and that’s how she feels.  Neither she nor Solas have slept in two days, and she feels as though she might collapse at any minute.  She desperately wants to simply ignore what Solas is about to say, but she has to focus on damage control.  Many of her Circle – well, at least Cassandra – will demand justice, and Persephone has to dissuade her from reacting _too_ angrily.

Solas carefully explains who he is, what he’s done, and Persephone can see the carefully contained anger on Dorian’s face, the way Cullen’s hand slips to the hilt of his sword.  When Solas finishes he simply sits with a neutral expression, though she knows him well enough to know that he must be nervous.

“Well, Leliana is gonna be pissed,” Varric says finally, easing back in his chair.  “She knew you were lying, Chuckles, suspected it for a while.”

Solas nods, and Persephone stands wearily, scrubbing one hand across her face.

“I understand that some of you may be upset to realize that Fen – er, Solas – is the cause of all of this, but I must ask you to be empathetic.   He only ever wished to help my people, and he simply made some mistakes in his attempts.”

“Mistakes?” Cassandra echoes, “Inquisitor, I think _mistakes_ might be too mild a word for what this apostate has done!  He gave an extremely powerful orb to a madman, led to what was nearly your death multiple times, and as a result almost destroyed the world!”

The Inquisitor opens her mouth as if to respond, and then shakes her head, sighing.  “I’m too tired to deal with this,” she announces, “We can talk tomorrow.  I have to sleep.”

Solas (she isn’t sure if she should call him Fen’Harel, just like she isn’t sure if she should think of herself as Fen’Lethal) looks at her, the arch of his eyebrow telling her that he _knows_ she’s avoiding dealing with this, and that is true.  She doesn’t want to mediate this conflict, doesn’t want to have this be a conflict at all.  Yes, she’s avoiding it.  But she is also far too tired to deal with anything – that wasn’t a lie.

She exits the room, shoving the doors open rather dramatically as she does so.  They slam shut behind her and she makes it to the staircase to her quarters before she slumps against the wall, exhausted and suddenly very uncertain of the future.

She’d thought that the Inquisition was a family, especially the inner circle; they could fight, they could bicker, but they would always have each other’s backs.  But maybe she’d been too optimistic.  Maybe, now that Corypheus has been defeated, she should pass the mantle of Inquisitor onto somebody else.  There has to be _someone_ who can take her place – she just doesn’t know if she can handle the position anymore. 

And yet she can’t imagine leaving.

Persephone forces herself up the last few flights of stairs to her quarters and then simply collapses on the bed.

There are tears on her cheeks, and yet she falls asleep almost instantly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "Dear Fellow Traveler" by Sea Wolf
> 
> Translation of elven in this chapter:
> 
> Ma vhenan, na melana na sahlin/Var lath na uth, la iras ar hamin/Dirthera ar emma eth, emma vhenas/emma na vhenan, emma na lath: My heart, your time is now; our love is eternal, and where I rest. Tell me I am safe, I am home, I am your heart, I am your love.
> 
> Na dara ma vhenan: You (to be) my heart; I meant it to be translated as "You are my heart" since I could not find the word for "are"
> 
> Ar ena in na nehn, in na numin/Emma na mi la na hanin/Emma solas dara na vhenan/Var vir na nehn la lath: I appear inside your joy, inside your tears. I am your blade and your glory. I am proud to be your heart; our way is joy and love.
> 
> Din, vhenan, emma solas dara na vhenan: No, my heart, I am proud to be your heart.
> 
> da'vhenan: little heart; term of endearment
> 
> da'nehn: little joy
> 
> We're nearing the end of this fic, and I just wanted to thank you all for reading it! This won't be the end of Persephone Lavellan (I have a sequel & an au planned), but just the end of this installment.


	7. Take Me Back to the Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Varric have A Talk, the Inquisitor makes up her mind about names, the Warden and Hawke get in touch, and Persephone calls Solas out on being a hypocrite (but also cute times)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. The final chapter. I hope you enjoyed this whole thing, and I hope you enjoy this last chapter. See you soon!

He has been back for four days and he is just now returning to his rotunda; before now his time has been taken up entirely by healing Persephone’s mother and explaining his actions to the Inquisition.  But now he’s back in the familiar room, the cawing of Leliana’s (although not Leliana’s any longer; not since she became Divine) ravens making him feel more at home than he wants to admit.  This is dangerous, all of it.  Allowing him to fall back into Persephone’s love, allowing himself to call her _vhenan_ once more, remaining at Skyhold this long – none of it bodes well for his cause.  It was incredibly hard to tear himself away from her the first time.  Now it will be nearly impossible.

“You really did a number on her, Chuckles.”

He isn’t surprised to hear Varric behind him and he turns carefully, a neutral expression on his face.  He was expecting Dorian to approach him first, but he knew this conversation with Master Tethras was only a matter of time.  Despite not being surprised, he is struggling to fathom which new aspect of Persephone is the one Varric has decided is his fault.  He begins to formulate a response but Varric continues, forcing him to hold his words back.

“After you left, she stopped getting sleep.  For weeks she had dark circles under her eyes.  Sometimes the nightmares would be so troubling that you could hear her screaming from the gate.”  He shakes his head, staring up at Fen’Harel from under heavy brows.  “Hawke used to have nightmares, too.  They got worse after Leandra died.  But Stabby’s are worse than Hawke’s ever were.  She needed you, and you _weren’t there._ ”

“I know.”

His heart is wrenching painfully in his chest because he _knows_ that he’s the reason the nightmares stopped.  Even when he distanced himself from her he couldn’t keep out of her dreams, couldn’t help but want to keep her safe and well rested.  But after the defeat of Corypheus, after he left the Inquisition, he couldn’t bear to look for her in the Fade.  He had feared that, should he see her suffering, he would not have the strength to stay away from her.  And, judging by his sudden difficulty in the area of breathing, he was correct in his fears.

“She wasn’t herself for a while.  Especially right after you took her vallaslin.”

“Did you come here for a purpose, or solely to shower guilt upon me?”

His words are sharp and he means for them to fall from his lips that way.  He has made enough mistakes in his life without being constantly reminded of them by men who know nothing of his suffering.  He has walked the world and the Fade for thousands of years, caused an uprising and watched the downfall of his people, locked away his family for the good of the elvhen.  He has no need of reminders; each one of his mistakes and actions lives within his mind, replaying constantly, and none so much as that night when he removed the marks of slavery from her face and left her in the glen.

He was going to tell her the truth.  He had planned it, planned on explaining everything to her, but his fears had been too great.  He had doubted her, and now he doesn’t understand how he could have.  She is so beautiful, so understanding, the brightest spirit he has ever had the pleasure of meeting.  He loves her – he cannot say when he began to love her, but he knows that it happened slowly, gently.  She crept into his heart and soul with a measured patience, the likes of which he has not seen since Arlathan.  Then, courtships spread across centuries, highly romantic affairs with songs and beautiful magic woven to impress the object of one’s affections.  If this were Arlathan he would lavish her with the most magnificent of songs and gifts, enough to make Andruil jealous.

“This isn’t about guilt, Chuckles,” Varric tells her, his eyes softening for just a moment.  The dwarf has a soft heart, and Fen’Harel respects him for that, among other things.  “I just wanted to let you know – if you leave again, I don’t know if she’ll be able to cope.  She’s already on the verge of collapse from all of this shit she’s had to deal with.  She _needs_ you, Solas.  You think Hawke could have gotten half as far as she did without Anders?  He’s an idiot who joined with a spirit and blew up the Chantry, but he’s _her_ idiot.  He keeps her sane.  That’s what Stabby needs you for, get it?  You’re her harbor in the storm.  Her anchor at sea.  Her fortress in the siege.  You keep her from getting lost.”

“She seems to have managed quite well without me.  Skyhold is still standing, after all.”

“That’s not the point, Chuckles,” he sighs, “Krem _barely_ kept her together, and she still couldn’t sleep.  It got to the point where she wouldn’t sleep, because she knew you would never come back, and she couldn’t bear seeing you in her dreams.”

He wishes that the dwarf would stop, that these fearful words would cease to fall from his lips.  Fen’Harel cannot bear the thought of it, cannot bear to think of his heart refusing to sleep because of what he has done.  He imagines her, dark circles under her eyes, hiding her weariness and lack of energy from everyone, and his heart twists once more in his chest.

“Why?” he asks, “Why tell me about this, as if I could not see her weariness when she found me?  As if I did not know how weak she had become?  As if I did not know how much it hurts to be apart from the one you love?  I know the consequences of leaving.  I _know,_ child of the stone.”

“Don’t leave again,” Varric says, “Take my advice – don’t.  Whatever your cause is, whatever reason you left – let her help.  Cassandra’s extremely pissed that you started this whole mess, but she’ll come around.  Persephone will talk her into it, and then you’ll have the might of the Inquisition behind you.”

Fen’Harel stills for a moment, imagining the life he’s so often dreamt about.  He thought it impossible, believed that his cause must come first, but now he wonders if he was wrong.  He can make a life with her, can love her as she deserves to be loved.  She has proven time and time again that she is different, that she supports him, that she will protect him no matter what.  _I wouldn’t let anything happen to you._ She has never lied to him; he trusts that she will do everything in her considerable power to keep him safe from those who hate him.

“I will consider it,” he says, though he already knows that he cannot leave her again.  His fate has been decided since she found him, since he returned to Skyhold.  It is too late to turn his back once more.  He will remain.

\--

“Ah, is my beautiful Dalish lover still asleep?  Alas, I planned to ravish her before dining with her!”

She rolls over, shoving her face into the pillow.  “Dorian, I love you, but I want to sleep in.”

“Rise and shine, Boss. We brought you frilly cakes and an elven apostate.”

Persephone lets out a noise of disagreement at the Iron Bull’s offer, snuggling further beneath the covers.  The sun is streaming in through her windows, but if she squeezes her eyes shut hard enough, she can pretend that it’s far too early to wake up.  Her bed sinks slightly on the right side, and then dips a rather large amount on the left.  Bull has obviously sat down.

“Solas can stay.  But I want to sleep.”

The covers get ripped off, and large hands lift her up and deposit her on her couch.   She groans, refusing to open her eyes.  “As Inquisitor, I order you to leave.”

She hears a chuckle that belongs to Solas, and heresponds first.  “As your physician, _vhenan,_ I must insist that you awaken and eat something.”

“ _You_ need to eat something.  Like my ass.  My entire ass.”

“If that is what you wish, _emma lath._ ”

Her eyes shoot open and she lets out a noise that can only be described as one of shock.  Solas is grinning at her, and Dorian is chuckling.  She kicks at the Tevinter mage, letting out a disgusted noise that would make Cassandra proud.

“Welcome to the waking world, Boss.  Krem’s gonna be here in a minute.”

“Chief, I got the brandy!”

“Speak of the devil,” Persephone mutters, but can’t help a smile as her friend’s head appears above the stairs.  Dorian shoves a cake into her hands and she reluctantly takes a bite, though she doesn’t have much of an appetite.  “What time is it?”

“Nearly noon,” Krem answers, placing the bottle of brandy on her desk, “I guess you _were_ tired, yeah?  I guess three solid days of magic will do that to a person.”

“Yeah, and you would know, wouldn’t you?” Bull asks, giving his lieutenant a wry glance, “You ‘vints are all the same.  Blood mages and bastards.”

“Except Dorian, of course?” Krem questions, tone light.  This banter is usual between them, nothing out of the ordinary.  Persephone likes the lightness between them, likes their simple trust in each other even when they poke fun — beneath the _Tevinter bastard_ and _pillowy man-bosoms_ lies an undeniable trust, the kind that doesn’t require words.  They are warriors so used to serving side by side that in battle they hardly need speak to one another; Krem calls him _boss_ but she thinks to herself that they are more like brothers than anything.

“Dorian doesn’t count,” Persephone mutters, but a smile quirks at the corners of her lips anyway.  “It’s the moustache.  Always captures hearts.”

Dorian snorts at her, and Krem grins.  “Sorry, milady, but I can’t grow a moustache.  Wouldn’t want one, anyway.  Looks itchy.  How’d you sleep, anyway?  Well, I hope?  Chief got a little rowdy.  Apparently some noble slandered your honor.  We kicked his ass, though, no worries.”

“Thanks,” she begins, and then, “First good night of sleep I’ve gotten in months.”

Solas’ expression looks pained for a moment, which worries her (as well as giving her some sense of satisfaction; she understands _why_ he left, but that doesn’t mean all of her bitterness is completely gone), but then the moment passes and he’s back to normal.

“So, have you decided what name you’re going to go by?” Dorian asks.  She considers it for a moment, wondering what she would have done a few years ago, posed with the same question.

“I have no idea,” Persephone confesses, “But… I feel like I’m more than just _Persephone Lavellan_ now.  Something has… changed within me.  It’s not the same.  I think that… maybe Fen’Lethal is who I am.”

“Well, whatever you decide,” Bull says, leaning on the back of the couch (which tilts alarmingly beneath his weight), “You’re still the Inquisitor.  And you’re still the boss.”

She grins a little, tilting her head back to look at him.  “Thanks, Bull.”

“Although, Fen’Lethal is a bit long.  What if we just call you Al?”

She hums, running a hand through her messy hair.  “I think I’d like that.”

\--

“Inquisitor, I have a few letters for you, if you are feeling up to it.  News from both the Hero of Ferelden and Hawke.”

Al glances upwards, smiling brightly when she sees Josephine offering her two envelopes.  Earlier, they’d finally had the meeting her advisors and companions had so desired, in which they had explained who Solas was, what he had done, and why Al has forgiven him.  Some of them take it better than others.  Cullen still looks at the apostate like he’s going to up and leave at any moment.  Al knows that he won’t.  Still, despite the (mostly) positive reactions of her friends, she is still tired.  And the letters are a welcome distraction from her other Inquisitorial duties.

“News from Charlotte _and_ Adriana?  This is a pleasant surprise — far better than any other ones I’ve had recently.”

Josephine smiles back, and Al takes the letters with a thanks.  She sets them in front of her, contemplating whose letter to open first.  On one hand, she hasn’t seen Charlotte in a while, and misses the mage dearly.  On the other hand, Adriana often has interesting information for the Inquisition to use.  After a moment, she opens Hawke’s letter.

 _Persephone (or should I say Fen’_ _Lethal?),_

_How have you been?  We all heard how you defeated Corypheus, but it was only through Varric that I discovered what else you’ve been through.  I’m glad to hear that you found your mother as well as Solas.  I would give anything to have my mother and sister back — but at least I had time with them.  You didn’t even have that.  Now is your chance to do what you could have done before.  Eat meals with her, tell her about your day, and go to her for advice.  It may feel weird, to have a mother after living without one for so long, but I believe that you’ll come to enjoy it._

_If you would allow it, I would like to visit Skyhold – and to bring Anders along.  Of course, I understand if you feel uncomfortable with him accompanying me, but I assure you that neither he nor Justice will cause any trouble.  In fact, he tells me that Justice rather likes you, since you support mages so stoutly and have not re-instated the Circles.  He and I would like to thank you personally for defeating Corypheus – when we faced him, he got inside Anders’ head and whispered things to him.  I have never been as afraid for him as I was then, and I am glad I will never have to go through such an ordeal again._

_I only ask that you don’t announce that Anders is staying with me.  I’ve forgiven him for his faults and for his desperate plan which nearly brought ruin upon us all, but others have not.  He is not the villain they make him out to be; if you do not trust my word on the matter (which you may not. You might consider me blinded by my affection for him.  I understand.), trust Varric’s.  I’m sure my friend has never felt more than friendship for “Blondie”, and has no illusions when it comes to him._

_I anxiously await your reply, Your Magnificence.  Or should I call you Al?_

_-_ _Hawke_

Al grins at the letter, and then turns to Adriana’s:

_Inquisitor Lavellan;_

_Firstly, I would like to congratulate you on your defeat of Corypheus.  As well, I am glad to hear that both Leliana and Morrigan are doing well - I have missed them greatly, and was surprised that Leliana took up the mantle of Divine._ _Morrigan wrote a rather brief letter, informing me of Kieran’s well-being, and inquiring after my daughter.  Morrigan and I butted heads frequently, but she has always had my back, and I have hers.  I understand that she can be hard to trust (and can find it hard to trust others), but, as I understand it, you have made a good impression on her._

 _I was wondering, Inquisitor, if you would permit Zevran and I to visit with our daughter.  She wants so desperately to meet you, and Zevran says that (and I quote him here) the Inquisition is "lacking in devilishly handsome and charming elves."  Of course, this was merely his support of our daughter.  She has him wrapped around her finger._ _Little Philippa is a charmer, just like her father – but I wouldn’t have it any other way.  When I told her that the Inquisitor was an elf, she immediately demanded to know everything that we could tell her about you._

 _I also heard, from Leliana, of your plan to abolish slavery_ _and give our people a homeland.  I would, of course, like to support you in this matter.  If you agree, I would hope to come within a few months.  As well, King Alistair sends his regards.  He says that, should any_ _apostate mage wish it, they are welcome_ _once more in his kingdom._ _Alistair also congratulates you on your victory._

_Regards,_

_Adriana Mahariel_

Al smiles at the letters, setting them beside her.  She’ll have to have Josephine begin preparing for their arrival; it won’t do to have the Hero of Ferelden show up at their door with Skyhold in shambles.  She yawns, stretches, and stands up.  She needs to pen responses to both Adriana and Hawke, and warn Josephine about Anders.  She’s really quite excited to see both women, though she worries that word of Anders will get out, and people will be angry.  The last thing she wants is a mob on her hands because all they see in Hawke’s lover is an abomination.  She walks to her room and pulls out parchment, beginning to pen the reply letters.

_Adriana,_

_The Inquisition would be honored to welcome you to Skyhold, especially if you were to bring your family.  Not only do I (and a considerable amount of my inner circle) love children, but I suspect that Kieran could do with some familiar faces.  I am flattered that your daughter has such an interest in me, and would be glad to answer her questions.  While here, you will have free range of the fortress, and access to whatever you desire.  It is the least I can do for someone who saved Thedas long before I did._

_I will inform the apostates of Alistair’s offer, and give him my thanks.  I am sure that the mages will be overjoyed to learn that they may make a life for themselves outside of the Inquisition.  And, please, call me Al._

_Awaiting Your Arrival,  
Al_

Satisfied with her letter to the Grey Warden, she turns her focus towards penning a reply to Hawke.  As soon as she puts pen to paper, however, she hears a knock on her door.

“Come in,” she calls, setting down her quill and standing up from her desk.  She knows that there are very few people who she must stand in respect for (and none of them would arrive without warning), but she always has found it easiest to meet someone on her feet.  Not only does it put her in a better position to defend herself, but she needs to get as much height on people as possible.  She doesn’t have much to spare.

It’s Varric who comes up the stairs, however, and she sits back down with an easy smile.  She enjoys Varric’s company, enjoys their late-night games of Wicked Grace and their frequent jokes about how humans keep causing the world to fall apart.

“How are you, Stabby?” he asks her, looking uncharacteristically solemn.  Al gestures to an easy chair she’d had brought up to her quarters, but Varric doesn’t sit.  Something stirs within her, uneasy, and the Inquisitor has to fight back a frown.

“I’m fine, Varric — is something… wrong?”

Varric shakes his head, managing a smile.  Al isn’t exactly put at ease, but it at least stops her from panicking too much.  “Just a little tired, Al.  What’ve you got there?” he asks, gesturing towards the letters on her desk.  She glances downwards, shifting the papers around as she answers.  They aren’t very messy, but the movement helps her think, keeps her calm.  At this point, she needs everything she can to stay calm.

“Letters.  From the Hero and Hawke.  They both want to visit — I was just penning a response to Hawke when you arrived.”

“Well,” Varric says, “I’ll leave you to that, then.”

He stands, as if he’s about to leave, but Al stands up to stop him.  “Don’t go,” she insists, “unless… well, if you have something to do, you’re obviously welcome to go.  But you aren’t a problem.”

Varric chuckles at her, but eases himself back into his seat.  “So, you’ve got Hawke _and_ the Hero of Ferelden coming to visit?  The world is going to go insane.”

She laughs, shaking her head a little.  “The world’s already gone insane — where have you been for the last two years?  And it isn’t just Hawke and Adriana – they’re bringing Anders and Zevran as well.  Josephine is going to have kittens.”

“Oh, Blondie will like that,” Varric grins, “he loves cats.”

Al grins back, returning pen to paper.

_Hawke,_

_Life has calmed down considerably here at Skyhold, so of course you and Anders should come.  Bring some chaos with you – I’m getting a little bored of the lack of fighting.  I joke, of course, but I hope that you and I will take a few days to go take care of some bandits or Venatori, or something.  Just for old time’s sake.  I will take your word on Anders – if you trust him, I will trust him.  And if I was incapable of forgiving people, well… let’s just say that’s a conversation for when you arrive._

_I should like to inform you that the Hero of Ferelden and her husband Zevran will be visiting Skyhold as well.  If the gathering of the three best-regarded heroes in Thedas doesn’t end in some form of chaos, I will be supremely disappointed, as well as shocked.  It seems that trouble follows the three of us wherever we go.  Actually, you bringing Anders is certain to end in some trouble, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.  I’ll be sure to inform Josephine_ not _to spread word of your companion, and we’ll have a private suite for the two of you._

_Tell Anders that I very much wish to meet him.  Were it not for his actions in Kirkwall, the Conclave would never have happened, and I would probably be living in squalor somewhere, having left my clan due to bad memories.  Worse, I would never have found my mother, nor would I have met Solas.  I would still be a lost Dalish girl, instead of the leader of the Inquisition.  I have much to thank him for – in a way, it is because of him that I am who I am.  And, yes, you can call me Al.  My friends have taken to doing it, and you are nothing if not my friend._

_\- Al_

“ _Vhenan_?”

Solas’ lilting voice floats up the stairwell, and Varric grins at Al with a shrug.  “I’ll leave you two alone,” he says, standing, “See you later, Stabby.  Wicked Grace?”

“You’re on, dwarf,” she laughs, “Goodbye.”

He descends the stairs just as Solas ascends them, and the apostate nods respectfully at Varric.  Al pushes her chair away from her desk and flits over to him, pecking her lover on the lips.  “Hello, Solas.”

“Hello.”  He pulls her in for another kiss, one that makes her heart pound and her head feel light.  “Josephine informed me that you had retired to your quarters.  I came to ensure that you were feeling alright.”

“I’m fine, _emma lath_ ,” she tells him, “Just writing letters to Adriana Mahariel and Hawke.  They’re both visiting – _with_ their lovers.  Or husbands.  Or whatever they are.  I _know_ that Warden Mahariel and Zevran are married, and they have a daughter.”

“I was under the impression that Grey Wardens could not have children.”

Al shrugs, sliding her hand into his.  There are few things she enjoys quite as much as holding hands; the simple presence of another person and the sense that she is not alone is comforting to her.  “Maybe they adopted her,” she suggests, “Regardless, I bet that she’s _adorable_.  Most children are.  I know that Kieran is.”

“You do indeed have a love for children,” Solas says, “I have seen it countless times.  The way you deal with Kieran is lovely to behold.  You would make a wonderful mother, _‘ma lath_.”

Al grins, arching an eyebrow.  “Was that a suggestion, Dread Wolf?”

A smile twitches at the corner of Solas’ lips as he looks down at her, his eyes alight.  “Perhaps, my heart.  Perhaps.”

She giggles, feeling a blush come to her cheeks.  She is easily flustered, always has been, and feels silly any time that she flirts with him.  She looks away, clearing her throat and trying to hide her silly smile.

“Hawke is bringing Anders,” Al says, “I’m not sure if they’re married or not.”

She almost doesn’t notice the hardening of Solas’ face, but it doesn’t quite escape her notice.  She squeezes his hand, her eyebrows drawing together above her green eyes in concern.  “What is it?”

Solas shakes his head.  “Do you truly trust Anders?  He killed innocent people when he destroyed Kirkwall’s Chantry.”

“Fen,” she says, shaking her head with a bemused smile, “Fen, my darling, _ma lath, ma vhenan_ — He did what he thought was necessary for his cause.  Sounds like someone else I know.”

She grins at him, arching her eyebrow.  She’s teasing, but is almost afraid that she will hurt him, with her talk of what mistakes he has made for the freedom of their people.

“Do not hate Anders for that,” she requests, “Hawke loves him, and trusts him.  Just as I love and trust you.  And it is because of him that we met, or have you forgotten that he began the conflict between Templars and Mages, which led to the Conclave?”  She gives him a kiss.  “Also, he likes cats.”

Solas raises an eyebrow.  “Cats?”

Al nods.  “Cats.  I think I’ll buy him one, as a present.”

Solas chuckles, pulling her close to him with a roguish grin.  “You are incredibly compassionate and kind.  Such a soul I have never come across – and such beauty I have not seen since the heights of Arlathan.”

“There you go again,” she laughs, “Sweet talker.”

She wants to kiss him, but she wants to hug him more, so she buries her head into his chest and snakes her arms around him.  She presses herself up against him, letting their close proximity relax her.  With the weight of the world constantly on her, she needs some support, and that’s what she has in him, in this moment.

“ _Ar lath ma,_ ” Solas murmurs to her, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“I love you too,” she mumbles, keeping her eyes shut tight.  “What do I call you, now?  Fen’Harel?”

“That is my true name,” he says in affirmation.  “And you are my heart.  It only makes sense.”

“Okay, Fen’Harel,” she says, pulling away from him, “Varric invited me to play Wicked Grace with everyone, like we did before.  Do you want to join, this time?”

“I think I would like that,” Fen’Harel answers, kissing the top of her head once more and taking her hand in his.  “Lead the way, _vhenan._ This is, after all, your castle.”

Al smiles, squeezing his hand, and the two of them leave the room.  Finally, things are going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title was taken from The Scientist by Coldplay.
> 
> as a little taste of what will come in the sequel: the warden, hawke, and their love interests make an appearance. Al gets more excitement than she hoped for, and another nickname (thanks, hawke). Also, children. And puppies. And cats.
> 
> \- Percy


End file.
